Datasets:

AIRI-NLP

/

quality_counter_new_3072

like 0

Follow

NLP Research Group 9

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

support

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

hell

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

shortcomings

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

owings

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

ego

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

astonishment

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

history

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

collection

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

what

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

spirits

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

roof

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

inclined

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

sex

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

lured

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

images

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

hidden

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

joy

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

worth

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

short

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

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of anger. And I turned my back on him abruptly. The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding. X A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms. For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had, therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend. Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart, and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a right to complain. Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character. Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche, understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius. Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come. Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature, had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic: the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully. What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence! Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion, so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her intellectual life. "I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the heat of the sun." As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her anything but modest and good-natured. Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers. In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then, when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of _Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical. Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations, gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala. "Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds. At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us. Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon." Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language; any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have found in this man material for the most important studies on the development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender admiration for primitive moral beauty. When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle. Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may have. At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in after years. Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe, and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention. At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my claim. For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night, Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day." In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger. Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park. None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: "Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you." This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs. "Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word." "Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation." "Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me long." "I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language, and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners, improve your mind, and we will see." "Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge." "Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only make me despise you." So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the flame of her candle. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed. "I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason with brutes." "Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the burning paper. But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright. "It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke." I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. "Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: "Why are you crying, Bernard?" I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. "What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter tears from you?" "You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!" "It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her arm. "Yes; anger or something else," I replied. "But what else?" she asked. "I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer." "Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation." "Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now." "And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?" "I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them." "And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?" "You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth." "Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?" "Yes, tell me." "Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little faults?" "I did; that was my only resource." "You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least the resource of the oppressed." "I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no excuse for your deceiving me." "And who says that I have deceived you?" "But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me." "I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now, because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either about you or myself." "And what must I do?" "You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and, believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love evil, I never loved it; and, if

man

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

love

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

its

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

provided

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

faults

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

beast

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

should

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

passengers

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

time

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

ruby

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

some

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

feeling

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

nests

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

an

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

not,--since

How many times the word 'not,--since' appears in the text?

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

momentary

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

marry

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

sea

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

ham

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

mountainside

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

"And your other faults?" "Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see." There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said, turning pale. "No." "Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his. "Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the door. "Give me your hand." I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat. "_Allons,_ Ben," I said. "Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open. A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but _C sar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down. Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles. "If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know now that I _love_ Desmond?" "Will you bring him into our Paradise?" "Where?" "Our home, in Surrey." "Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?" "If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?" "Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are coming through the hall. Good-night." CHAPTER XXXIII. At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them with manners copied after their own. I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away. All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr. Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages? "As in a glass, darkly." Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in _Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and visionary. Did I think so? "Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?" "Well, _well_, well?" "Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers--sometimes." "Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that." "My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree." He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so. "It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again. I mean, I think so." I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must." "You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister," he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence. "Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for both of us?" "Desmond? he will never marry." "It is certainly possible." "You know how I am clogged." I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire. "Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine." I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: "What time shall I get up, sir?" "I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled." He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night. "The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask of wine mixed with water." I thanked him, and tied my bonnet. "Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor. He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box. "What a curious bouquet," he said. In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight. "No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady "aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles. "Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said. There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said: "You have a good head, marm." "Too good?" "Forgetful, may be." I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Your circulation is too rapid," he continued. The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me. "Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug." I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left, telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight. A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard. The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused, and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in. "She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off." "It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics. "Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?" She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me, and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains, sat down beside her in the dark. "Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide coming in?" She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions. "Let us keep her away from the grave," she said. I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?" "Mother is dead," she answered. A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps." "You must go to your own room and rest." "Can you keep everybody from me?" "I will try." Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs. "Temperance," said Verry. "Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica. "It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I said. "Let us let Providence alone." "What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?" "It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her. "It will kill your father." I had not thought of him. "It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully." "No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry. "No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat." I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen. "My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can. I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible." "Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?" "Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had to help her upstairs." The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in. "Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?" She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks." Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose clothes--" "Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated. "Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed." She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance," she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do _everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away." "Have the neighbors gone?" I asked. "There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father." He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death. "Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice, while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her there--_there_, that I am crushed." If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her. "I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly. CHAPTER XXXIV. The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me. I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion. I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost, who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me." She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said. I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a fla on of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again." The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the fla on of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial. As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose. We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was

music

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

principle

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

encouraged

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

took

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

soul

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

those

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

abated

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

main

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

delegate

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

extreme

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

understand

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

hops

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

can

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

fifteen

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

concentrating

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

helvetius

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

for

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

jean

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

inquire

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

known

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

"Go away?" "Yes. When shall I be fit for tramping?" "Never, if you are unreasonable; to-morrow, if you are good." "What do you call being good?" "Trusting in God." "God? What has He done with my children?" She seemed to be wandering. Her voice had grown very gentle. "You must see," she went on to say, "that I cannot stay like this. You never had any children; but I am a mother: that makes a difference. One cannot judge of a thing unless he knows what it is like. Did you ever have any children?" "No," replied Tellmarch. "But I have. Can I live without my children? I should like to be told why my children are not here. Something is happening, but what it is I cannot understand." "Come," said Tellmarch, "you are feverish again. You mustn't talk any more." She looked at him and was silent. And from that day she kept silence again. This implicit obedience was more than Tellmarch desired. She spent hour after hour crouching at the foot of the old tree, like one stupefied. She pondered in silence,--that refuge of simple souls who have sounded the gloomy depths of woe. She seemed to give up trying to understand. After a certain point despair becomes unintelligible to the despairing. As Tellmarch watched her, his sympathy increased. The sight of her suffering excited in this old man thoughts such as a woman might have known. "She may close her lips," he said to himself, "but her eyes will speak, and I see what ails her. She has but one idea; she cannot be resigned to the thought that she is no longer a mother. Her mind dwells constantly on the image of her youngest, whom she was nursing not long ago. How charming it must be to feel a tiny rosy mouth drawing ones soul from out one's body, feeding its own little life on the life of its mother!" He too was silent, realizing the impotence of speech in the presence of such sorrow. There is something really terrible in the silence of an unchanging thought, and how can one expect that a mother will listen to reason? Maternity sees but one side. It is useless to argue with it. One sublime characteristic of a mother is her resemblance to a wild animal. The maternal instinct is divine animalism. The mother ceases to be a woman; she becomes a female, and her children are her cubs. Hence we find in the mother something above reason and at the same time below it,--a something which we call instinct. Guided as she is by the infinite and mysterious will of the universe, her very blindness is charged with penetration. However anxious to make this unfortunate woman speak, Tellmarch could not succeed. One day he said to her:-- "Unfortunately I am old, and can no longer walk. My strength is exhausted before I reach my journey's end. I would go with you, only that my legs give out in about fifteen minutes and I have to stop and rest. However, it may be just as well for you that I cannot walk far, as my company might be more dangerous than useful. Here, I am tolerated; but the Blues suspect me because I am a peasant, and the peasants because they believe me to be a wizard." He waited for an answer, but she did not even raise her eyes. A fixed idea ends either in madness or heroism. But what heroism can be expected from a poor peasant woman? None whatever. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day she grew more and more absorbed in her reverie. Tellmarch was watching her. He tried to keep her busy. He bought her needles, thread, and a thimble, and to the delight of the poor Caimand, she really began to busy herself with sewing; she still dreamed, it is true, but she worked also,--a sure sign of health,--and by degrees her strength returned. She mended her underwear, her dress, and her shoes, her eyes all the while preserving a strange, far-away look. As she sewed she hummed to herself unintelligible songs. She would mutter names, probably children's names, but not distinctly enough for Tellmarch to understand. Sometimes she paused and listened to the birds, as though she expected a message from them. She watched the weather, and he could see her lips move as she talked to herself in a low voice. She had made a bag and filled it with chestnuts, and one morning Tellmarch found her gazing vaguely into the depths of the forest, and he saw that she was all ready to start. "Where are you going?" he asked. And she replied,-- "I am going to look for them." He made no effort to detain her. [Illustration 084] VII. THE TWO POLES OF TRUTH. After a few weeks, crowded with the vicissitudes of civil war throughout the district of Foug res, the talk ran for the most part upon two men, wholly unlike in character, who were nevertheless engaged in the same work, fighting side by side in the great revolutionary struggle. The savage duel still continued, but the Vend e was losing ground,--especially in Ille-et-Vilaine, where, thanks to the young commander who at Dol had so opportunely confronted the audacity of six thousand Royalists with that of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not suppressed, was at least far less active, and restricted to certain limits. Several successful attacks had followed that exploit, and from these repeated victories a new state of affairs had sprung into existence. Matters had assumed a different aspect, but a singular complication had arisen. That the Republic was in the ascendant throughout this region of the Vend e was beyond a doubt; but which Republic? Amidst the dawning of triumph, two republics confronted each other,--that of terror, determined to conquer by severity, and that of mercy, striving to win the victory by mildness. Which was to prevail? The visible representatives of these two forms, one of which was conciliatory and the other implacable, were two men, each possessing influence and authority,--one a military commander, the other a civil delegate. Which of the two would win the day? The delegate was supported by a tremendous influence; he came bringing with him the threatening watchword from the Paris Commune to the battalion of Santerre: "No mercy, no quarter!" As a means of compelling implicit obedience to his authority, he had the decree of the Convention reading as follows: "Penalty of death to whomsoever shall set at liberty or connive at the escape of a rebel chief," and also full powers from the Committee of Public Safety, with an injunction commanding obedience to him as a delegate, signed by Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The soldier, for his part, had but the power that is born of pity. His weapons of defence were his right arm to chastise the enemy, and his heart to pardon them. As a conqueror, he felt that he had a right to spare the conquered. Hence a conflict, deep but as yet unacknowledged, between these two men. They lived in different atmospheres, both wrestling with rebellion,--the one armed with the thunderbolts of victory, the other with those of terror. Throughout the Bocage, men talked of nothing else; and the extreme intimacy of two men of such utterly opposite natures contributed to increase the anxiety of those who were watching them on every side. These two antagonists were friends. Never were two hearts drawn together by a deeper or a nobler sympathy. The man of ungentle nature had saved the life of him who was merciful; the scar on his face bore witness to the fact. These men represented in their own persons the images of death and of life, embodying the principle of destruction and that of peace, and they loved each other. Conceive, if you can, Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Try to imagine Arimanes the brother of Ormus! Let us also add that of these two men, the one who was called ferocious showed himself at the same time the most brotherly of men. He dressed wounds, nursed the sick, spent his days and nights in the ambulances and hospitals, took pity on the barefooted children, kept nothing for himself, but gave all he had to the poor. He never missed a battle,--always marching at the head of the columns; was ever in the thickest of the fight,--armed, it is true, for he always wore in his belt a sabre and two pistols, yet practically unarmed, for no one had ever seen him draw his sword or raise his pistols. He faced blows, but never returned them. It was said that he had been a priest. These two men were Gauvain and Cimourdain,--at variance in principles, though united in friendship: it was like a soul cleft in twain; and Gauvain had in truth received the gentler half of Cimourdain's nature. One might say that the latter has bestowed the white ray upon Gauvain, and kept the black one for himself. Hence a secret discord. Sooner or later this suppressed disagreement could hardly fail to explode; and one morning the contest began as follows. Cimourdain said to Gauvain,-- "What have we accomplished?" To which the latter replied,-- "You know as well as I. I have dispersed Lantenac's bands. He has but a few men left, and has been driven to the forest of Foug res. In eight days he will be surrounded." "And in fifteen?" "He will be captured." "And then?" "You have seen my notice?" "Yes; and what then?" "He is to be shot." "A truce to clemency. He must be guillotined." "I approve of a military death." "And I of a revolutionary one." Looking Gauvain full in the face, Cimourdain said,-- "Why did you order those nuns of the convent of Saint-Marc-le-Blanc to be set at liberty?" "I do not wage war against women," replied Gauvain. "Those women hate the people; and when there is a question of hatred, one woman is equal to ten men. Why did you refuse to send that band of fanatical old priests, whom you took at Louvign , before the revolutionary tribunal?" "Neither do I wage war against old men." "An old priest is worse than a young one. The rebellion that is advocated by white hair is so much the more dangerous. People have faith in wrinkles. Do not indulge in false pity, Gauvain. The regicide is the true liberator. Keep your eye on the tower of the Temple." "The Temple Tower! I would have the Dauphin out of it. I am not making war against children." Cimourdain's eye grew stern. "Learn then, Gauvain, that one must make war on a woman when her name is Marie-Antoinette, on an old man if he happens to be Pope Pius VI., and upon a child who goes by the name of Louis Capet." "I am no politician, master." "Try, then, not to be a dangerous man. Why was it that during the attack of the post of Coss , when the rebel Jean Treton, repulsed and defeated, rushed alone, sabre in hand, against your entire division, you cried, 'Open the ranks! Let him pass through!'" "Because it is not fit that fifteen hundred men should be allowed to kill one man." "And why at Cailleterie d'Astill , when you saw that your soldiers were about to kill the Vendean Joseph B zier, who was wounded and just able to drag himself along, did you cry, 'Forward! leave this man to me!' and directly afterwards fire your pistol in the air?" "Because one shrinks from killing a fallen enemy." "There you were wrong. Both of these men are leaders at this present moment. Joseph B zier is known as Moustache, and Jean Treton as Jambe-d'Argent. By saving their lives you presented the Republic with two enemies." [Illustration 095] "I should prefer to make friends for her rather than enemies." "After the victory of Land an, why did you not shoot the three hundred peasant prisoners?" "Because Bonchamp pardoned the Republican prisoners, and I wished it to be known that the Republic pardons the Royalist prisoners." "Then I suppose you will pardon Lantenac if you take him?" "No." "Why not,--since you pardoned three hundred peasants?" "The peasants are only ignorant men. Lantenac knows what he is about." "But Lantenac is your kinsman." "And France nearer than he." "Lantenac is an old man." "To me Lantenac is a stranger; he has no age. He is ready to summon the English, he represents invasion, he is the country's enemy, and the duel between us can only be ended by his death or mine." "Remember these words, Gauvain." "I have said them." For a while both men remained silent, gazing at each other; then Gauvain continued,-- "This will be a bloody year,--this '93." "Tate care," cried Cimourdain. "There are terrible duties to be performed, and we must beware of accusing the innocent instrument. How long since we have blamed the doctor for his patient's illness? Yes, the chief characteristic of this stupendous year is its pitiless severity. And why is this? Because it is the great revolutionary year,--the year which is the very incarnation of revolution. Revolution feels no more pity for its enemy, the old world, than the surgeon feels for the gangrene against which he is fighting. The business of revolution is to extirpate royalty in the person of the king, aristocracy in that of the nobleman, despotism in that of the soldier, and superstition and barbarism in the persons of the priest and the judge,--in one word, of every form of tyranny in the image of the tyrant. The operation is a fearful one, but revolution performs it with a steady hand. As to the amount of sound flesh that must be sacrificed, ask a Boerhave what he thinks of it. Do you suppose it possible to remove a tumor without loss of blood? Can a conflagration be extinguished without violent efforts? These terrible necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon may be compared to a butcher, or a healer may seem like an executioner. Revolution is devoted to its fatal work. It mutilates that it may save. What! can you expect it to take pity on the virus? Would you have it merciful to poison? It will not listen. It holds the past within its grasp, and it means to make an end of it. It cuts deeply into civilization, that it may promote the health of mankind. You suffer, no doubt; but consider for how short a time it will endure,--only so long as the operation requires; and after that is over you will live. Revolution is amputating the world; hence this hemorrhage,--'93." "A surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, "and the men I see are violent." "Revolution requires the aid of savage workmen," replied Cimourdain; "it repulses all trembling hands; it trusts only such as are inexorable. Danton is the impersonation of the terrible, Robespierre of the inflexible, Saint-Just of the immovable, and Marat of the implacable. Take note of it, Gauvain. We need these names. They are worth as much as armies to us. They will terrify Europe." "And possibly the future also," replied Gauvain. He paused, and then continued,-- "But really, master, you are mistaken. I accuse no one. My idea of revolution is that it shall be irresponsible. We ought not to say this man is innocent, or that one is guilty. Louis XVI. is like a sheep cast among lions. He wishes to escape, and in trying to defend himself he would bite if he could; but one cannot turn into a lion at will. His weakness is regarded as a crime; and when the angry sheep shows his teeth, 'Ah, the traitor!' cry the lions, and they proceed straightway to devour him, and afterwards fall to fighting among themselves." "The sheep is a brute." "And what are the lions?" This answer set Cimourdain thinking. "The lions," he replied, "represent the human conscience, principles, ideas." "It is they who have caused the Reign of Terror." "Some day the Revolution will justify all that." "Take care lest Terror should prove the calumny of the Revolution." Gauvain continued,-- "Liberty, equality, fraternity,--these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why give them so terrible an aspect? What are we striving to accomplish? To bring all nations under one universal republic. Well, then, let us not terrify them. Of what use is intimidation? Neither nations nor birds can be attracted by fear. We must not do evil that good may come. We have not overturned the throne to leave the scaffold standing. Death to the king, and life to the nations. Let us strike off the crowns, but spare the heads. Revolution means concord, and not terror. Schemes of benevolence are but poorly served by merciless men. Amnesty is to me the grandest word in human language. I am opposed to the shedding of blood, save as I risk my own. Still, I am but a soldier; I can do no more than fight. Yet if we are to lose the privilege of pardoning, of what use is it to conquer? Let us be enemies, if you will, in battle; but when victory is ours, then is the time to be brothers." "Take care!" repeated Cimourdain for the third time; "take care, Gauvain! You are dearer to me than a son." And he added, thoughtfully,-- "In times like these pity may be nothing less than treason in another form." Listening to these two men, one might have fancied himself hearing a dialogue between a sword and all axe. [Illustration 086] VIII. DOLOROSA. Meanwhile the mother was searching for her little ones, walking straight onward; and how she subsisted we cannot tell, since she did not know herself. She walked day and night, begging as she went, often living on herbs and sleeping upon the ground in the open air, among the bushes, under the stars, and sometimes mid the rain and the wind. Thus she wandered from village to village and from farm to farm, making inquiries as she went along, but, tattered and torn as she was, never venturing beyond the threshold. Sometimes she found a welcome, sometimes she was turned away; and when they refused to let her come in, she would go into the woods. Unfamiliar as she was with the country beyond Siscoignard and the parish of Az , and having nothing to serve as guide, she would retrace her steps, going over and over the same ground, thus wasting both time and strength. Sometimes she followed the highway, sometimes the cart-ruts, and then again she would turn into the paths in the woods. In this wandering life she had worn out her wretched garments. At first she had her shoes, then she went barefoot, and it was not long before her feet were bleeding. Unconsciously she travelled on, mid bloodshed and warfare, neither hearing, seeing, nor trying to shield herself, simply looking for her children. As the entire country was in rebellion, there were no longer any gendarmes, or mayors, or authorities of any kind. Only such persons as she encountered on the way would she stop to ask. "Have you seen three little children anywhere?" And when the passers-by lifted their heads she would say,-- "Two boys and a girl," and go on to name them: "Ren -Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. Have you not seen them?" And again,-- "The oldest one was four and a half and the youngest twenty months." Presently she would add,-- "Do you know where they are? They have been taken from me." [Illustration 087] People gazed at her, and that was all. Perceiving that she was not understood, she would explain,-- "It is because they are mine. That is the reason." And then seeing the passers-by continue their way, she would stand speechless, tearing her breast with her nails. One day, however, a peasant stopped to listen to her. The worthy man set his wits at work. "Let us see. Did you say three children?" he asked. "Yes." "Two boys?" "And a girl." "And you are looking for them?" "Yes." "I was told that a nobleman had carried off three little children and keeps them with him." "Where is that man? Where are they?" she cried. "Yon must go to the Tourgue," answered the peasant. "And shall I find my children there?" "Very likely you will." "What did you say the name was?" "The Tourgue." "What is the Tourgue?" "It is a place." "Is it a village, a castle, or a farm?" "I never was there." "Is it far?" "I should say so." "In what direction?" "In the direction of Foug res." "Which way shall I go?" "You are now at Ventortes," replied the peasant. "You will leave Ern e on your left and Coxelles on your right; you must pass through Longchamps, and cross the Leroux." The peasant raised his hand and pointed westward. "Keep straight ahead, facing the sunset." She had already started before he had time to lower his arm. He called out to her. "You must be careful; they are fighting over there." She never turned to reply, but walked straight ahead without pausing. [Illustration 088] IX. A PROVINCIAL BASTILE. [Illustration 089] I. LA TOURGUE. The traveller who forty years ago entered the forest of Foug res from the direction of Laignelet and came out towards Parign , might have beheld on the edge of this dense forest a sinister sight, for emerging from the thicket he would come directly upon the Tourgue, and not the living Tourgue, but the dead one. The Tourgue cracked, battered, scarred, dismantled. A ruin may be called the ghost of an edifice. Nothing could be more lugubrious than the aspect of the Tourgue. A high circular tower stood alone like a malefactor on the edge of the wood, and rising as it did from a precipitous rock, its severe and solid architecture gave it the appearance of a Roman structure, combining within itself the elements of power and of decay. In fact, it might in one sense be called Roman, since it was Romance. It was begun in the ninth century and finished in the twelfth, after the time of the third crusade. The style of the imposts of its embrasures indicated its period. If one approached it and cared to climb the slope, he might perceive a breach in the wall; and if he ventured to enter in, he would find a vacant space and nothing more. It was not unlike the inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground. From top to bottom there were no partitions, and neither ceilings nor floors; here and there arches and chimneys had evidently been torn away, and falconet embrasures were still seen; at different heights, rows of granite corbels and a few cross-beams covered with the ordure of the night birds marked the separate stories; a colossal wall, fifteen feet thick at its base and twelve at its summit; cracks here and there, and holes which once were doors, and through which one caught glimpses of staircases within the gloomy walls. One who passing by at evening might venture in, would hear the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the night-herons; would find brambles, stones, and reptiles beneath his feet; and overhead, through a dark circular opening at the top of the tower which looked like the mouth of an enormous well, he might see the stars. Local tradition relates that there were secret doors in the upper stories of this tower, like those in the tombs of the kings of Judah, composed of one large stone turning on a pivot, which when closed could not be distinguished from the wall itself,--a fashion in architecture brought home by the crusaders, together with the pointed arch. When these doors were closed, it was impossible to discover them, so skilfully were they fitted into the rest of the stones. Such doors can be found to-day in those mysterious Libyan cities which escaped the earthquakes that buried the twelve cities in the time of Tiberius. II. THE BREACH. The breach by which one gained access to the ruin was the opening of a mine. A connoisseur familiar with Errard, Sardi, and Pagan would have appreciated the skill with which this mine was planned. The fire-chamber, in the shape of a biretta, was of a size accurately proportioned to the strength of the keep which it was intended to destroy. It was capable of containing at least two hundred-weight of powder. The winding passage which led to it was more effective than a straight one. The saucisse, laid bare among the broken stones as the result of the crumbling caused by the mine, was seen to have the requisite diameter of a hen's-egg. The explosion had made a deep rent in the wall, by which the assailants were enabled to enter. It was evident that this tower must have sustained formal sieges from time to time. It was riddled with balls, and these were not all of the same epoch; every missile has its own special way of marking a rampart, and each one, from the stone bullets of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the eighteenth, had left a scar upon this donjon-keep. The breach opened into what must have been the ground-floor; and directly opposite, in the wall of the tower, was the gateway of a crypt, cut in the rock and extending under the hall of the lower floor throughout the foundation of the tower. This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1835, under the direction of Auguste Le Provost, the antiquary of Bernay. III. THE OUBLIETTE. This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep possessed one, and this, like many other penal dungeons of the same period, had two stories. The first story, accessible through the gate, consisted of a good-sized vaulted chamber, on a level with the hall of the ground-floor. On the walls of this room might be seen two vertical furrows, parallel with each other, reaching from wall to wall and passing along the vault, where they had left a deep rut, reminding one of wheel-tracks,--and such in fact they were; for these two furrows were hollowed out by two wheels. In old feudal times men had been torn limb from limb here in this very room, by a process less noisy than that of being drawn and quartered. They had a pair of wheels so large and powerful that they filled the entire room, touching both walls and ceiling, and to each wheel was attached an arm and a leg of the victim; and when these wheels were turned in opposite directions, the man was torn asunder. It required great power; hence the ruts worn in the stone by the grazing of the wheels. A room of this kind may be seen at Vianden. [Illustration 090] Above this room there was another, the actual oubliette, whose only entrance was a hole which served the purpose of a door; the victim, stripped of his clothes, was let down, by means of a rope tied under his armpits, into the room below, through an opening made in the middle of the flagging of the upper room. If he persisted in living, food was thrown to him through this aperture. A similar hole may still be seen at Bouillon. This chamber below, excavated under the hall of the ground-floor to such a depth that it reached water, and constantly swept by an icy wind, was more like a well than a room. But the wind so fatal to the prisoner in the depths was, on the other hand, favorable to the one overhead, groping about beneath the vault, who could breathe the easier on account of it; indeed, all the air he had, came up through this hole. But then any man who entered, or rather fell, into this tomb, never came out again. It behooved the prisoner to look out for himself in the darkness, for it needed but one false step to change the scene of his sufferings. That, however, was his own affair. If he were tenacious of life, this hole was his danger; but if he were weary of it, it was his resource. The upper story was the dungeon, the lower one the tomb,--a superposition not unlike that of the society of the period. This is what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon; but since the thing itself has disappeared, the name has no longer any meaning for us. Thanks to the Revolution, we can listen with indifference to the sound of these words. On the outside of the tower, and above the breach, which forty years ago was its only entrance, might be seen an embrasure somewhat wider than the other loopholes, from which hung an iron grating, loosened and broken. IV. THE BRIDGE-CASTLE. A stone bridge whose three arches were but slightly damaged, was connected with this tower on the side opposite to the breach. This bridge had once supported a building whose few remaining fragments bore the traces of a conflagration; it was only the framework that was left standing, and as the light shone through its interstices as it rose side by side with the tower, it had the effect of a skeleton beside a phantom. To-day this ruin is utterly demolished, leaving no trace whatever behind. A single peasant can destroy in one day structures that kings have labored for centuries to erect. La Tourgue, a peasant abbreviation, signifies La Tour-Gauvain, just as La Jupelle stands for La Jupelli re, and Pinson le Tort, the name of a hunchback leader, for Pinson le Tortu. La Tourgue, which even forty years ago was a ruin, and which to-day is but a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It was the old Bastile

pity

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

uniform

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

chest

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

giant

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

supply

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

blankly

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

cutting

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

across

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

finally

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

shirt

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

aged

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

general

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

novel

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

john

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

slumber

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

elevated

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

scholar

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

concrete

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

hose

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

gathering

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

"Hannibal", production draft, by Steven Zaillian H A N N I B A L Screenplay by Steven Zaillian Based on the Novel by Thomas Harris Revision February 9, 2000 INT. PANEL VAN - DAY Clarice Starling is dead, laid out in fatigues across a bench in the back of a ratty, rattling undercover van. Three other agents sit perched on the opposite bench, staring at her lifeless body. BURKE How can she sleep at a time like this? BRIGHAM She's on a jump-out squad all night; she's saving her strength. INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - DAY Gray cement walls blur past as the panel van descends a circular ramp to a lower level. As it straightens out, the view through the windshield reveals a gathering of men and vehicles - marked and unmarked DC police cars - and two black SWAT vans. The panel van - with Marcell's Crab House painted on its sides - pulls to a stop. The back doors open from the inside and Starling is the first one out - well-rested and alert - hoisting down her equipment bag. One of the DC policemen, the one whose girth and manner say he's in charge, watches the woman by the van slip into a Kevlar vest, drop a Colt .45 into a shoulder holster, and a .38 into an ankle holster. She straightens up, approaches the men and lays a street plan across the hood of one of their cars. STARLING All right, everyone, pay attention. Here's the layout - BOLTON Excuse me, I'm Officer Bolton, DC Police. STARLING Yes, I can see that from your uniform and badge, how do you do? BOLTON I'm in charge here. Starling studies him a moment. He sniffs as if that might help confirm his weighty position. STARLING You are? BOLTON Yes, ma'am. Starling's glance finds Brigham's. His says, Just let it go. Hers says back, I can't. STARLING Officer Bolton, I'm Special Agent Starling, and just so we don't get off on the wrong foot, let me explain why we're all here. Brigham shakes his head to himself in weary anticipation of her 'explanation.' STARLING I'm here because I know Evelda Drumgo, I've arrested her twice on RICO warrants, I know how she thinks. DEA and BATF, in addition to backing me up, are here for the drugs and weapons. You're here, and it's the only reason you're here, because our mayor wants to appear tough on drugs, especially after his own cocaine conviction, and thinks he can accomplish that by the mere fact of having you tag along with us. Silence as the gathering of agents and policemen stare at her and Bolton. BOLTON You got a smart mouth, lady. STARLING Officer, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you took a step or two back, you're in my light. Bolton takes his time, but eventually backs away a step. STARLING Thank you. All right. (re: the street plan) The fish market backs on the water. Across the street, ground floor, is the meth lab -- EXT. FISH MARKET AND STREETS - DAY The Macarena blares from a boom box. Snappers, artfully arranged in schools on ice, stare up blankly. Crabs scratch at their crates. Lobsters climb over one another in tanks. One of the black SWAT vans turns down a side street. The other takes an alley. The Marcell's Crab House van continues straight along Parcell Street. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY A 150-pound block of dry ice tries to cool down the heat from all the bodies in the van - Starling and Brigham, the two other agents, Burke and Hare, and her new best friend, Officer Bolton. As they drive along, Bolton watches as she takes several pairs of surgical gloves from her equipment bag, slips one pair on, and hands the rest to the others, the last pair offered to him. STARLING Drumgo's HIV positive and she will spit and bite if she's cornered, so you might want to put these on. (Bolton takes the gloves and puts them on) And if you happen to be the one who puts her in a patrol car in front of the cameras, and I have a feeling you will be, you don't want to push her head down, she'll likely have a needle in her hair. EXT. FISH MARKET AREA - DAY The swat vans pull into position, one to the side of the building across from the fish market, the other around back. As the battered van pulls to the curb in front, a mint low- rider Impala convertible, stereo thumping, cruises past. INT. PANEL VAN - DAY The thumping fades, leaving the Macarena filtering in. Starling pulls the cover off the eyepiece of a periscope bolted to the ceiling of the van and makes a full rotation of the objective lens concealed in the roof ventilator, catching glimpses of: A man with big forearms cutting up a mako shark with a curved knife, hosing the big fish down with a powerful hand- held spray. Young men idling on a corner in front of a bar. Others lounging in parked cars, talking. Some children playing by a burning mattress on the sidewalk; others in the rainbow spray from the fishmonger's hose. The building across from the fish market with the metal door above concrete steps. It opens. STARLING Heads up. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals comes out with a satchel across his chest, other hand behind the case. A wiry black man comes out the door behind him, carrying a raincoat, and behind him, Evelda Drumgo. STARLING It's her. Behind two guys. Both packing. BRIGHAM (into a radio) Strike One to all units. Showdown. She's out front, we're moving. Starling and the others put on their helmets. Brigham racks the slide of his riot gun. The back doors opena and Starling is the first one out, barking - STARLING Down on the ground! Down on the ground! No one gets down on the ground - not Evelda Drumgo, not her men, none of the merchants or bystanders. The Macarena keeps blaring. Drumgo turns and Starling sees the baby in the blanketed sling around her neck. She can also hear the roar of a big V8 and hopes it's her backup. Drumgo turns slightly and the baby blanket flutters as the MAC 10 under it fires, shattering Brigham's face shield. As he goes down, Hawaiian Shirt drops his satchel and fires a shotgun, blowing out the car window next to Burke. Gunshots from the V8, a Crip gunship, a Cadillac, coming toward Starling. Two shooters, Cheyenne-style in the rolled- down window frames, spraying automatic fire over the top. Starling dives behind two parked cars. Hare and Bolton fire from behind another. Auto glass shatters and clangs on the ground. Everyone in the market scrambling for cover, finally hitting the fish-bloodied cement. The Macarena still blasting. Pinned down, Starling watches the wiry black man drop back against the building, Drumgo picks up the satchel, the gunship slowing enough for someone to pull her in. Starling stands and fires several shots, taking out Hawaiian Shirt, the other man by the building, the driver of the accel- erating Cadillac, one of the men perched on the window frames - drops the magazine out of her .45 slams another in before the empty hits the ground. The Cadillac goes out of control, sideswiping a line of cars, grinds to a stop against them. Starling moving toward it now, following the sight of her gun. A shooter still sitting in a window frame, alive but trapped, chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. Gunfire from somewhere behind Starling hits him and shatters the rear window. STARLING Hold it! Hold your fire! Watch the door behind me! Evelda! The firing stops but the pounding of The Macarena doesn't. STARLING Evelda! Put your hands out the window! Nothing for a moment. Then Drumgo emerges from the car, head down, hands buried in the blanket-sling, cradling the crying baby. STARLING Show me your hands! (Evelda doesn't) Please! Show me your hands! Evelda looks up at her finally, fondly it seems, doesn't show her hands. DRUMGO Is that you, Starling? STARLING Show me your hands! DRUMGO How you been? STARLING Don't do this! DRUMGO Do what? She smiles sweetly. The blanket flutters. Starling falls. Fires high enough to miss the baby. Hits Drumgo in the neck. She goes down. Starling crawling in the street, the wind knocked out of her from the hits to her chest, to her vest. Reaches Drumgo, blood gushing out of her onto the baby. She pulls out a knife. Cuts the harness straps. Runs with the baby to the merchant stalls as enterprising tourists click shots from the ground with disposable cameras. Starling sweeps away knives and fish guts from a cutting table. Lays the baby down. Strips it. Grabs the handheld sprayer and washes at the slick coating of HIV positive blood covering the baby, a shark's head staring, Macarena pounding, disposable cameras clicking, the river of bloody water running along a gutter to where Brigham lies dead. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - DAY Gray sky. Rain coming down. A large gathering, many in uniform, standing in wet grass around an open grave, the rain spilling off the rims of their umbrellas. A casket is being lowered in. Starling watches as it decends, watches the gears of the hoist working and the box disappearing beneath the edge of the muddy hole, not allowing herself to cry, or to meet the eyes of certain other mourners watching her. EXT. ARLINGTON CEMETERY - LATER - DAY Long line of parked cars, some marked, most not, many with government plates. Smoke plumes from the exhaust of the one idling nearest, a Crown Victoria. Inside the car, Starling sits in the front passenger seat with a cardboard box on her lap, a middle-aged man in Marine dress blues beside her at the wheel. The wipers slap back and forth. HAWKINS You like to think when it's over your things would fill more than one cardboard box. Starling touches the things in the box: a BATF badge, a couple of laminated clip-on ID cards with Brigham's face on them, a medal, a pen set, a compass paper-weight, two guns and a framed desk photo of a dog. HAWKINS John's parents don't want it. Any of it. Except the dog. Don't want to be reminded. STARLING I want to be reminded. HAWKINS I figured. He was your last compadre on the street, wasn't he. STARLING My last compadre. He sits watching her touch the things, and will continue to do so as long as she wants. Eventually, she folds down the cardboard flaps. Hawkins looks up ahead - HAWKINS All they'll get with tinted windows is pictures of themselves, but it won't stop them from trying. You ready? She is. He pulls away from the curb. A handful of wet photographers appears in the windshield's view up ahead. As the car passes, their cameras swing around to point at Starling's side of it and flash like stars. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - FBI DC FIELD OFFICE - DAY The words "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" skew as a glass door opens. Starling comes in to find several men awaiting her, all balanced on Florsheim wingtips and tasseled Thom McAn loafers. PEARSALL Agent Starling, this is John Eldredge from DEA; Assistant Director Noonan, of course you know; Larkin Wayne, from our Office of Professional Responsibility; Bob Sneed, BATF; Benny Holcome, Assistant to the Mayor; and Paul Krendler - you know Paul. Paul's come over from Justice - unofficially - as a favor to us. In other words, he's here and he's not here. A couple of the men bobbed their heads at the mention of their names; none offered his hand. Starling sits a thin manila folder on her lap. A silence stretches out as each man regards her. Finally - SNEED I take it you've seen the coverage in the papers and on television. (nothing from Starling) Agent Starling? STARLING I have nothing to do with the news, Mr. Sneed. SNEED The woman had a baby in her arms. There are pictures. You can see the problem. STARLING Not in her arms, in a sling across her chest. In her arms, she had a MAC 10. Mr. Pearsall? This is a friendly meeting, right? PEARSALL Absolutely. STARLING Then why is Mr. Sneed wearing a wire? Pearsall glances to Sneed and his tie clasp. Sneed sighs. SNEED We're here to help you, Starling. That's going to be harder to do with a combative attitude like - STARLING Help me what? Your agency called this office and got me assigned to help you on the raid. I gave Drumgo a chance - two chances - to surrender. She didn't. She fired. She shot John Brigham. She shot at me. And I shot her. In that order. You might want to check your counter right there, where I admit it. A silence before the man from the Mayor's Office speaks up - HOLCOME Ms. Starling, did you make some kind of inflammatory remark about Ms. Drumgo in the van on the way? STARLING Is that what your Officer Bolton is saying? (he chooses not to say) I explained to him, and the others in the van, that Drumgo was HIV positive and would think nothing of infecting them, and me, any way she could given the chance. If that's inflamma - HOLCOME Did you also say to him at one point that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower? (she doesn't answer) Did Officer Bolton smell bad to you? STARLING Incompetence smells bad to me. HOLCOME You shot five people out there, Agent Starling. That may be some kind of record. Is that how you define competence? A beeper goes off. Every one of the men checks the little box on his belt. It's Noonan's. He excuses himself from the room. STARLING Can I speak freely, Mr. Pearsall? (he nods) This raid was an ugly mess. I ended up in a position where I had a choice of dying, or shooting a woman carrying a child. I chose. I shot her - FLASHCUT to Drumgo - hit in the neck by Starling's bullet - silently falling to the ground - STARLING I killed a mother holding her child. The lower animals don't do that. And I regret it. I resent myself for it. But I resent you, too - whichever of you thinks that by attacking me, bad press will go away. That Waco will go away. A mayor's drug habit. All of it. FLASHCUT to Drumgo, lying dead in the road, then back here again to Starling, "watching" her in silence. Noonan pokes his head in, gestures to Pearsall to join him in the anteroom. Krendler invites himself along. Sneed and Holcome get up and stare out the window. Eldredge paces, his wingtips soundlessy dragging on the carpet. WAYNE I know you haven't had a chance to write your 302 yet, Starling, but - STARLING I have, sir. A copy's on its way to your office. I also have a copy with me if you want to review it now. Everything I did and saw. She hands it to him. He begins leafing through it. Pearsall and Krendler reappear - PEARSALL Assistant Director Noonan is on his way back to his office, Gentlemen. I'm going to call a halt to this meeting and get back to you individually by phone. Sneed cocks his head like a confused dog. SNEED We've got to decide some things here. PEARSALL No, we don't. SNEED Clint - PEARSALL Bob, believe me, we don't have to decide anything right this second. I said I'll get back to you. (Pearsall's look to Starling says she's free to leave; she gets up) And, Bob? Pearsall grabs the wire behind Sneed's tie and pulls it down hard, the adhesive tape taking some chest hair along with it - judging from the grimace - as it comes away from his skin. PEARSALL You ever come in here wired again, I'll stick it up your ass. INT. HALL OUTSIDE - MOMENTS LATER Krendler - the only man who didn't speak in the meeting - idles outside. As Starling approaches - KRENDLER That was no free lunch, Starling. I'll call you. She keeps going. He admires the back of her legs. EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - MIAMI - DAY Jack Crawford misses a 20-foot putt by inches. GOLF PAL Oh ... bad luck, Jack. Crawford stares at the missed shot. Then spikes across the 18th green, taps it in, and groans the way anyone over forty does as he bends down to retrieve it. Pocketing it he turns, sees Starling standing outside the club house. She waves, bending just a couple of fingers, and he smiles, pleased, but not surprised to see her. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Crawford and Starling driving in his car, the clubs in the back seat. Palm trees float by. STARLING What's your handicap? CRAWFORD My handicap is I can't play golf. STARLING Maybe better clubs would help. CRAWFORD I play with the best clubs money can buy. It's not the clubs, it's a woeful lack of talent. STARLING Or interest. He nods - yeah, that's the real problem with it - turns onto another street. CRAWFORD Were my flowers at John's service okay? Lot of times, flowers by wire, you never know. STARLING They were canary daffodils. (he groans) I put your name on my flowers. CRAWFORD Thank you. STARLING Thank you. For the call. At the Inquisition. I don't know what you said to them, but it worked. CRAWFORD Don't thank me too quickly. EXT. MIAMI - DAY Downtown. Skyscrapers. INT. BUILDING - DAY Frameless glass doors in a sleek office building, etched: Allied Security, Threat Assessment, Miami, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro. Crawford holds one open for Starling and follows her into a handsome reception area. RECEPTIONIST How was it? Better today? CRAWFORD The clubs are in the dumpster downstairs if anyone wants them. He leads Starling deeper into the place, past pairs of men in nice suits conferring in the doorway of a kitchenette and over by a long bank of filing cabinets. Male and female secretaries move about. CRAWFORD Nice, huh? This could all be yours, Starling. I can get you a PI ticket in Florida tomorrow, you can chase insurance scams, extortion against the cruise lines, put down the gun and have some fun with me. Crawford accepts a handful of pink phone-message slips as they come past his secretary's desk, holds another door open and Starling steps into his office. STARLING Tempting. CRAWFORD Just wait. The door closing softly behind her says, "expensive hardware." INT. CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY They sit, Crawford behind his mahogany desk, Starling in a comfortable chair. As he rifles through the phone messages - CRAWFORD The call I made wasn't to Assistant Director Noonan. Whoever called him, I don't know. I called Mason Verger. He lets the name sink in, lets her dive for it, try to place it. She can't. It's familiar but doesn't connect to anything stable. CRAWFORD Lecter's fourth victim, Starling. The one who lived, if you can call it living. The rich one. He slides over a couple of photographs of a young man with a kind, trusting face. Now she remembers him. CRAWFORD I told Mason I wanted you off the street. I told him what I told you when I left the Bureau, "You go out with a gun enough times, you will be killed by one." I told him I want you where you belong, in Behavioral Science. Know what he said? STARLING He can speak? CRAWFORD It's about the only thing he can do. He said, after a very long pause, "Oh, what a good idea, Jack." (Crawford tries to smile) Who he called, I don't know. Someone higher up than anyone in that room with you. Maybe Representative Vollmer, who Mason may not own, but does rent from time to time. Silence as Starling tries to take it all in. She looks up with a question forming in her mind, and Crawford nods before she can say it. Very matter of fact - CRAWFORD Yeah, that's right, it means going back on the Lecter case. He busies himself with the phone messages again, arranging them in little, prioritized piles on his desk, as if perhaps this conversation is about nothing more important than a simple missing person case. STARLING What if I said to you I'd rather not do that? What if I said to you I prefer the street? CRAWFORD You think this is a cheap deal? What you were getting was a cheap deal. What they say about federal examiners is true: they arrive after the battle and bayonet the wounded. You're not safe on the street anymore. Starling takes another look at the photographs of Verger. STARLING Has something happened on the case? CRAWFORD Has Lecter killed anybody lately? I wouldn't know, I'm retired from all that. Mason doesn't know either, but he does apparently have some new information - which he'll only share with you. They consider one another for a long moment. Finally - CRAWFORD He's not pretty, Starling. And I don't just mean his face. EXT. MARYLAND - DAY Bare trees. Overcast sky. Starling's Mustang growling along the rain-slicked expressway. INT. MUSTANG - MOVING - DAY A Maryland state map spread out across the passenger seat. Starling's eyes darting back and forth between the black and red route-veins and the shrouded countryside out beyond the slapping wiper blades. An exit sign - and the exit itself - looms suddenly and rushes across the right side of her windshield. She curses to herself. It's the exit she wanted, but now it's gone, shrinking in her rearview mirror into the mist. EXT. THE VERGER ESTATE - DAY Coming back the other way along a service road, Starling slows to consider a chain-link gate stretched across a muddy road, then continues on. At the gate house of the main entrance, a security guard checks her name against a list. He seems reluctant to get himself or his clipboard wet, but not her identification, handing it out past the edge of his umbrella to her. The Mustang negotiates a long circuitous drive, taking her deeper and deeper into vast forest land. Eventually, though, a good mile from the gate house behind her, the trees give way to a clearing, and she sees the big Stanford White- designed mansion emerging from the mist up ahead. A man waits under an umbrella out front, indicates to her where to park - anywhere, one should think - there's enough space for fifty cars - then comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. CORDELL Ms. Starling. Hi. I'm Cordell. Mr. Verger's private physician. STARLING How do you do? She gathers her things out from under the map: file folder, micro-cassette recorder, extra tapes and batteries. He helps her out, then presses up against her to help maximize the umbrella's effectiveness. CORDELL Shall we make a run for it? As they hurry toward the porch - if it can be called a porch, as grand an entrance as a king's, or English rock star's manor - Starling notices the building's one modern wing, sticking out like an extra limb attached in some grotesque medical experiment. INT. VERGER'S MANSION - DAY They cross through a living room larger than most houses, then down a hall, their shoes moving along a Moroccan runner, sleeves past portraits of important-looking dead people. As they cross a threshold there's an abrupt shear in style: the rich carpet giving way to polished institutional floors, the portrait-lined walls to shiny white enamel. Cordell reaches for the handle of a closed door in the new wing, and Starling notices line of lights appear around the jamb where there were none. As the door opens, she squints. Two small photographer's spots on stands pitch narrow beams of light into her face and seem to follow her progress into the room. CORDELL (a whisper) One's eyes adjust to the darkness. This way is better. He leads her to a sitting area where a print of William Blake's "The Ancient of Days" hangs above a large aquarium divided in two by a wall of glass - an ell gliding around on one side, a fish on the other. A bank of security monitors completes the decor. To the spotlight - CORDELL Mr. Verger, Ms. Starling is here. The light stands flank a hospital bed, the beams effectively camouflaging the figure on it in their glare. STARLING Good morning, Mr. Verger. MASON Cordell, do you address a judge as Mr? The voice is steady and resonant. An "educated" voice, not unlike Lecter's. Before Cordell can answer him - MASON Agent Starling is her proper title, not "Ms." CORDELL Agent Starling. MASON Correct. Good morning, Agent Starling. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. STARLING Thank you. Starling sits with her things. Snaps open the little door of her cassette recorder to verify there's a tape inside. MASON Was that a Mustang I heard out there? STARLING Yes, it was. MASON Five-liter? STARLING '88 Stroker. MASON Fast. STARLING Yes. MASON Where'd you get it? STARLING Dope auction. MASON Very good. STARLING Mr. Verger, the discussion we're going to have is in the nature of a deposition. I'll need to tape record it if that's all right with you. MASON Cordell, I think you can leave us now. CORDELL I thought I might stay. Perhaps I could be useful if - MASON You could be useful seeing about my lunch. Starling gets up, but not to see him out. Once he's gone - STARLING I'd like to attach this microphone to your - clothing, or pillow - if you're comfortable with that. MASON By all means. She walks slowly toward the bed, or rather to the lights, uncertain exactly what position Verger may be in - on his back, his side; she has no way of knowing. MASON Here, this should make it easier. A finger like a pale spider crab moves along the sheet and depresses a button. The lights suddenly extinguish and Starling's pupils dilate. As her eyes adjust to the darkness Verger's face materializes in it like something dead rising up through dark water: Face is the wrong word. He has no face to speak of. No skin, at least. Teeth he has. He looks like some kind of creature that resides in the lowest depths of the sea. She doesn't flinch. Maybe the hand with the microphone recoils an inch or two, but that's it. She clips it to the flannel lapel of his pajamas, drapes the skinny cord over the side of the pillow and sets the recorder on the medical table next to the bed. MASON You know, I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Agent Starling? Do you have faith? STARLING I was raised Lutheran. MASON That's not what I asked - STARLING This is Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number - MASON - 475-98-9823 - STARLING - at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. (she drags over a chair) Mr. Verger, you claim to have - MASON I want to tell you about summer camp. It was a wonderful childhood experience - STARLING We can get to that later. The - MASON We can get to it now. You see, it all comes to bear, it's where I met Jesus and I'll never tell you anything more impor- tant than that. It was a Christian camp my father paid for. Paid for the whole thing, all 125 campers on Lake Michigan. Many of them were unfortunate, cast-off little boys and girls would do anything for a candy bar. Maybe I took advantage of that. Maybe I was rough with them - STARLING Mr. Verger, I don't need to know about the sex offenses. I just - MASON It's all right. I have immunity, so it's all right now. I have immunity from the U.S. Attorney. I have immunity from the D.A. in Owings Mills. I have immunity from the Risen Jesus and nobody beats the Riz. STARLING What I'd like to know is if you'd ever seen Dr. Lecter before the court assigned you to him for therapy? MASON You mean - socially? (laughs) STARLING That is what I mean, yes. Weren't you both on the board of the Baltimore Phil- harmonic? MASON Oh, no, my seat was just because my family contributed. I sent my lawyer when there was a vote. STARLING Then I'm not sure I understand how he ended up at your house that night, if you don't mind talking about it. MASON Not at all. I'm not ashamed. STARLING I didn't say you should be. MASON I invited him, of course. He was too professional to just sort of "drop in." I answered the door in my nicest come- hither leather outfit. FLASHCUT of the door opening, revealing Verger, in his leather gear, his face young and pretty. MASON I was concerned he'd be afraid of me, but he didn't seem to be. Afraid of me; that's funny now. FLASHCUT of Verger leading Lecter upstairs, each with a glass of wine in hand. MASON I showed him my toys, my noose set-up among other things - where you sort of hang yourself but not really. It feels good while you - you know. FLASHCUT to some dogs watching Verger with the noose around his neck, and Lecter offering him some amyl nitrite. MASON Anyway - he said, Would you like a popper, Mason? I said, Would I. And whoa, once that

she

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

connection

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

accurately

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

admitted

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

sybaritism

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

myself

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

casket

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

chamber

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

estate

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

mountains

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

huge

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

canoe

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

went

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

imperturbability

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

rubbish

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

presumptive

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

character

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

mean

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

morally

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

all

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

"Is she as handsome as ever?" "Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony." "What is the boy like?" Coombe reflected again before he answered. "He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon it suddenly face to face." "Is he as beautiful as all that?" "The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the expression of it." Feather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely. "I don't know what you mean," she admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a little laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry," she let drop in addition. "So was I, it happened," answered Coombe after a second or so of pause. Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that even his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Henry would be the Head of the House. "How is his cough?" inquired Feather. "Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive." Feather made three or four stitches. "Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said. "If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes his place in the line of succession." "Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather. It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly. "You have a mistaken view of her," he said. "You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle. "She doesn't admire me," said Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts." "Doesn't want it!" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one. "She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has strong ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him to be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--about the Creative Intention." "I suppose she is religious," Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. So God's rather an old story." "Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone." "Well," said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering and--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P." "Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it--probation," she answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!" "And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly. "Well, who else did?" said Feather cheerfully. "I don't know," he said. "Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out." "Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do." "No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the Bethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions." "How funny!" said Feather. "It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason in that connection." "Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feather was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God." "You are quite out of it," Coombe did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful." Feather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her flower through lovely lashes. "_I_ don't think," she said. "And I am not so bad looking." "No," he answered coldly. "You are not. At times you look like a young angel." "If Mrs. Muir is like that," she said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of me?" "No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you did not mind that sort of thing." "I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and she's a perfect beauty." "Last week?" said Coombe. "She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be arranged, I am afraid," he said. "Why not?" His answer was politely deliberate. "She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud of the relationship." "She does not like ME you mean?" "Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble you." Feather held up her hand and actually laughed. "If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!" And she snapped her fingers. Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her respect for certain meanings they beclouded. "I live in a new structure," she said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard in it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself." She had always been rather grave about her little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him. "This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god in the crib. "It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled. "Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said. "Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget what we have just said." Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards" which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over herself. He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities. This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself, but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry. Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy. Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be avoided. She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time! She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny. "Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens." "She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight." "Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly. "This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears." "I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens." Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals. Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley. "There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were those of an exultant owner. Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like little worshippers before a deity. Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. "Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it." She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time! The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs? A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman. "Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out." As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture. "What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get out." They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. "It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!" Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. "Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. "She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously. "She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably. "Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." There was a little silence--a delicate little silence. "I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor." "Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. "Is this Donal?" Feather said. "ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name. "Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?" Donal took a quick step forward. "ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly. "Of course I am." Donal quite flushed with excitement. "She doesn't KNOW," he said. He turned on Robin. "She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!" "But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see your boy," she said. "Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir. "Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children." While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air. Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them. "She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled. Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir. "IS--she?" she faltered. Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her. "Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother." She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast. CHAPTER X Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively. "I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew." He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible. After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny. "You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache." "I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way--boys quite unlike Donal." "Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely. "You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply. "And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!" "Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor's." "And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped

tempting

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