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A tone of authority

THE CONTENT OF THE PSYCHOSES

DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES.

The Mysterious Island by Jules Verne, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Chapter XI here Chapter XI Gideon Spilett took the box and opened it. It contained nearly two hundred grains of a white powder, a few particles of which he carried to his lips. The extreme bitterness of the substance precluded all doubt; it was certainly the precious extract of quinine, that pre-eminent antifebrile. This powder must be administered to Herbert without delay. How it came there might be discussed later. “Some coffee!” said Spilett. In a few moments Neb brought a cup of the warm infusion. Gideon Spilett threw into it about eighteen grains of quinine, and they succeeded in making Herbert drink the mixture. There was still time, for the third attack of the malignant fever had not yet shown itself. How they longed to be able to add that it would not return! Besides, it must be remarked, the hopes of all had now revived. The mysterious influence had been again exerted, and in a critical moment, when they had despaired of it. In a few hours Herbert was much calmer. The colonists could now discuss this incident. The intervention of the stranger was more evident than ever. But how had he been able to penetrate during the night into Granite House? It was inexplicable, and, in truth, the proceedings of the genius of the island were not less mysterious than was that genius himself. During this day the sulphate of quinine was administered to Herbert every three hours. The next day some improvement in Herbert’s condition was apparent. Certainly, he was not out of danger, intermittent fevers being subject to frequent and dangerous relapses, but the most assiduous care was bestowed on him. And besides, the specific was at hand; nor, doubtless, was he who had brought it far distant! And the hearts of all were animated by returning hope. This hope was not disappointed. Ten days after, on the 20th of December, Herbert’s convalescence commenced. He was still weak, and strict diet had been imposed upon him, but no access of fever supervened. And then, the poor boy submitted with such docility to all the prescriptions ordered him! He longed so to get well! Pencroft was as a man who has been drawn up from the bottom of an abyss. Fits of joy approaching delirium seized him. When the time for the third attack had passed by, he nearly suffocated the reporter in his embrace. Since then, he always called him Dr. Spilett. The real doctor, however, remained undiscovered. “We will find him!” repeated the sailor. Certainly, this man, whoever he was, might expect a somewhat too energetic embrace from the worthy Pencroft! The month of December ended, and with it the year 1867, during which the colonists of Lincoln Island had of late been so severely tried. They commenced the year 1868 with magnificent weather, great heat, and a tropical temperature, delightfully cooled by the sea-breeze. Herbert’s recovery progressed, and from his bed, placed near one of the windows of Granite House, he could inhale the fresh air, charged with ozone, which could not fail to restore his health. His appetite returned, and what numberless delicate, savory little dishes Neb prepared for him! “It is enough to make one wish to have a fever oneself!” said Pencroft. During all this time, the convicts did not once appear in the vicinity of Granite House. There was no news of Ayrton, and though the engineer and Herbert still had some hopes of finding him again, their companions did not doubt but that the unfortunate man had perished. However, this uncertainty could not last, and when once the lad should have recovered, the expedition, the result of which must be so important, would be undertaken. But they would have to wait a month, perhaps, for all the strength of the colony must be put into requisition to obtain satisfaction from the convicts. However, Herbert’s convalescence progressed rapidly. The congestion of the liver had disappeared, and his wounds might be considered completely healed. During the month of January, important work was done on the plateau of Prospect Heights; but it consisted solely in saving as much as was possible from the devastated crops, either of corn or vegetables. The grain and the plants were gathered, so as to provide a new harvest for the approaching half-season. With regard to rebuilding the poultry-yard, wall, or stables, Cyrus Harding preferred to wait. While he and his companions were in pursuit of the convicts, the latter might very probably pay another visit to the plateau, and it would be useless to give them an opportunity of recommencing their work of destruction. When the island should be cleared of these miscreants, they would set about rebuilding. The young convalescent began to get up in the second week of January, at first for one hour a day, then two, then three. His strength visibly returned, so vigorous was his constitution. He was now eighteen years of age. He was tall, and promised to become a man of noble and commanding presence. From this time his recovery, while still requiring care,—and Dr. Spilett was very strict,—made rapid progress. Towards the end of the month, Herbert was already walking about on Prospect Heights, and the beach. He derived, from several sea-baths, which he took in company with Pencroft and Neb, the greatest possible benefit. Cyrus Harding thought he might now settle the day for their departure, for which the 15th of February was fixed. The nights, very clear at this time of year, would be favorable to the researches they intended to make all over the island. The necessary preparations for this exploration were now commenced, and were important, for the colonists had sworn not to return to Granite House until their twofold object had been achieved; on the one hand, to exterminate the convicts, and rescue Ayrton, if he was still living; on the other, to discover who it was that presided so effectually over the fortunes of the colony. Of Lincoln Island, the settlers knew thoroughly all the eastern coast from Claw Cape to the Mandible Capes, the extensive Tadorn Marsh, the neighborhood of Lake Grant, Jacamar Wood, between the road to the corral and the Mercy, the courses of the Mercy and Red Creek, and lastly, the spurs of Mount Franklin, among which the corral had been established. They had explored, though only in an imperfect manner, the vast shore of Washington Bay from Claw Cape to Reptile End, the woody and marshy border of the west coast, and the interminable downs, ending at the open mouth of Shark Gulf. But they had in no way surveyed the woods which covered the Serpentine Peninsula, all to the right of the Mercy, the left bank of Falls River, and the wilderness of spurs and valleys which supported three quarters of the base of Mount Franklin, to the east, the north, and the west, and where doubtless many secret retreats existed. Consequently, many millions of acres of the island had still escaped their investigations. It was, therefore, decided that the expedition should be carried through the Far West, so as to include all that region situated on the right of the Mercy. It might, perhaps, be better worth while to go direct to the corral, where it might be supposed that the convicts had again taken refuge, either to pillage or to establish themselves there. But either the devastation of the corral would have been an accomplished fact by this time, and it would be too late to prevent it, or it had been the convicts’ interest to entrench themselves there, and there would be still time to go and turn them out on their return. Therefore, after some discussion, the first plan was adhered to, and the settlers resolved to proceed through the wood to Reptile End. They would make their way with their hatchets, and thus lay the first draft of a road which would place Granite House in communication with the end of the peninsula for a length of from sixteen to seventeen miles. The cart was in good condition. The onagers, well rested, could go a long journey. Provisions, camp effects, a portable stove, and various utensils were packed in the cart, as also weapons and ammunition, carefully chosen from the now complete arsenal of Granite House. But it was necessary to remember that the convicts were, perhaps, roaming about the woods, and that in the midst of these thick forests a shot might quickly be fired and received. It was therefore resolved that the little band of settlers should remain together and not separate under any pretext whatever. It was also decided that no one should remain at Granite House. Top and Jup themselves were to accompany the expedition; the inaccessible dwelling needed no guard. The 14th of February, eve of the departure, was consecrated entirely to repose, and—thanksgiving addressed by the colonists to the Creator. A place in the cart was reserved for Herbert, who, though thoroughly convalescent, was still a little weak. The next morning, at daybreak, Cyrus Harding took the necessary measures to protect Granite House from any invasion. The ladders, which were formerly used for the ascent, were brought to the Chimneys and buried deep in the sand, so that they might be available on the return of the colonists, for the machinery of the lift had been taken to pieces, and nothing of the apparatus remained. Pencroft stayed the last in Granite House in order to finish this work, and he then lowered himself down by means of a double rope held below, and which, when once hauled down, left no communication between the upper landing and the beach. The weather was magnificent. “We shall have a warm day of it,” said the reporter, laughing. “Pooh! Dr. Spilett,” answered Pencroft, “we shall walk under the shade of the trees and shan’t even see the sun!” “Forward!” said the engineer. The cart was waiting on the beach before the Chimneys. The reporter made Herbert take his place in it during the first hours at least of the journey, and the lad was obliged to submit to his doctor’s orders. Neb placed himself at the onagers’ heads. Cyrus Harding, the reporter, and the sailor, walked in front. Top bounded joyfully along. Herbert offered a seat in his vehicle to Jup, who accepted it without ceremony. The moment for departure had arrived, and the little band set out. The cart first turned the angle of the mouth of the Mercy, then, having ascended the left bank for a mile, crossed the bridge, at the other side of which commenced the road to Port Balloon, and there the explorers, leaving this road on their left, entered the cover of the immense woods which formed the region of the Far West. For the first two miles the widely scattered trees allowed the cart to pass with ease; from time to time it became necessary to cut away a few creepers and bushes, but no serious obstacle impeded the progress of the colonists. The thick foliage of the trees threw a grateful shade on the ground. Deodars, Douglas firs, casuarinas, banksias, gum-trees, dragon-trees, and other well-known species, succeeded each other far as the eye could reach. The feathered tribes of the island were all represented—grouse, jacamars, pheasants, lories, as well as the chattering cockatoos, parrots, and paroquets. Agouties, kangaroos, and capybaras fled swiftly at their approach; and all this reminded the settlers of the first excursions they had made on their arrival at the island. “Nevertheless,” observed Cyrus Harding, “I notice that these creatures, both birds and quadrupeds, are more timid than formerly. These woods have, therefore, been recently traversed by the convicts, and we shall certainly find some traces of them.” And, in fact, in several places they could distinguish traces, more or less recent, of the passage of a band of men—here branches broken off the trees, perhaps to mark out the way; there the ashes of a fire, and footprints in clayey spots; but nothing which appeared to belong to a settled encampment. The engineer had recommended his companions to refrain from hunting. The reports of the firearms might give the alarm to the convicts, who were, perhaps, roaming through the forest. Moreover, the hunters would necessarily ramble some distance from the cart, which it was dangerous to leave unguarded. In the afterpart of the day, when about six miles from Granite House, their progress became much more difficult. In order to make their way through some thickets, they were obliged to cut down trees. Before entering such places Harding was careful to send in Top and Jup, who faithfully accomplished their commission, and when the dog and orang returned without giving any warning, there was evidently nothing to fear, either from convicts or wild beasts, two varieties of the animal kingdom, whose ferocious instincts placed them on the same level. On the evening of the first day the colonists encamped about nine miles from Granite House, on the border of a little stream falling into the Mercy, and of the existence of which they had till then been ignorant; it evidently, however, belonged to the hydiographical system to which the soil owed its astonishing fertility. The settlers made a hearty meal, for their appetites were sharpened, and measures were then taken that the night might be passed in safety. If the engineer had had only to deal with wild beasts, jaguars or others, he would have simply lighted fires all around his camp, which would have sufficed for its defense; but the convicts would be rather attracted than terrified by the flames, and it was, therefore, better to be surrounded by the profound darkness of night. The watch was, however, carefully organized. Two of the settlers were to watch together, and every two hours it was agreed that they should be relieved by their comrades. And so, notwithstanding his wish to the contrary, Herbert was exempted from guard. Pencroft and Gideon Spilett in one party, the engineer and Neb in another, mounted guard in turns over the camp. The night, however, was but of few hours. The darkness was due rather to the thickness of the foliage than to the disappearance of the sun. The silence was scarcely disturbed by the howling of jaguars and the chattering of the monkeys, the latter appearing to particularly irritate Master Jup. The night passed without incident, and on the next day, the 15th of February, the journey through the forest, tedious rather than difficult, was continued. This day they could not accomplish more than six miles, for every moment they were obliged to cut a road with their hatchets. Like true settlers, the colonists spared the largest and most beautiful trees, which would besides have cost immense labor to fell, and the small ones only were sacrificed, but the result was that the road took a very winding direction, and lengthened itself by numerous detours. During the day Herbert discovered several new specimens not before met with in the island, such as the tree-fern, with its leaves spread out like the waters of a fountain, locust-trees, on the long pods of which the onagers browsed greedily, and which supplied a sweet pulp of excellent flavor. There, too, the colonists again found groups of magnificent kauries, their cylindrical trunks, crowded with a cone of verdure, rising to a height of two hundred feet. These were the tree-kings of New Zealand, as celebrated as the cedars of Lebanon. As to the fauna, there was no addition to those species already known to the hunters. Nevertheless, they saw, though unable to get near them, a couple of those large birds peculiar to Australia, a sort of cassowary, called emu, five feet in height, and with brown plumage, which belong to the tribe of waders. Top darted after them as fast as his four legs could carry him, but the emus distanced him with ease, so prodigious was their speed. As to the traces left by the convicts, a few more were discovered. Some footprints found near an apparently recently extinguished fire were attentively examined by the settlers. By measuring them one after the other, according to their length and breadth, the marks of five men’s feet were easily distinguished. The five convicts had evidently camped on this spot; but,—and this was the object of so minute an examination,—a sixth footprint could not be discovered, which in that case would have been that of Ayrton. “Ayrton was not with them!” said Herbert. “No,” answered Pencroft, “and if he was not with them, it was because the wretches had already murdered him! but then these rascals have not a den to which they may be tracked like tigers!” “No,” replied the reporter, “it is more probable that they wander at random, and it is their interest to rove about until the time when they will be masters of the island!” “The masters of the island!” exclaimed the sailor; “the masters of the island!...” he repeated, and his voice was choked, as if his throat was seized in an iron grasp. Then in a calmer tone, “Do you know, Captain Harding,” said he, “what the ball is which I have rammed into my gun?” “No, Pencroft!” “It is the ball that went through Herbert’s chest, and I promise you it won’t miss its mark!” But this just retaliation would not bring Ayrton back to life, and from the examination of the footprints left in the ground, they must, alas! conclude that all hopes of ever seeing him again must be abandoned. That evening they encamped fourteen miles from Granite House, and Cyrus Harding calculated that they could not be more than five miles from Reptile Point. And indeed, the next day the extremity of the peninsula was reached, and the whole length of the forest had been traversed; but there was nothing to indicate the retreat in which the convicts had taken refuge, nor that, no less secret, which sheltered the mysterious unknown. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Jules Verne (1998). The Mysterious Island. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1268/1268-h/1268-h.htm This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

The extreme bitterness of the substance precluded all doubt

Christian Science by Mark Twain, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . THE CHURCH EDIFICE here THE CHURCH EDIFICE 1. Mrs. Eddy gave the land. It was not of much value at the time, but it is very valuable now. 2. Her people built the Mother-Church edifice on it, at a cost of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. 3. Then they gave the whole property to her. 4. Then she gave it to the Board of Directors. She is the Board of Directors. She took it out of one pocket and put it in the other. 5. Sec. 10 (of the deed). “Whenever said Directors shall determine that it is inexpedient to maintain preaching, reading, or speaking in said church in accordance with the terms of this deed, they are authorized and required to reconvey forthwith said lot of land with the building thereon to Mary Baker G. Eddy, her heirs and assigns forever, by a proper deed of conveyance.” She is never careless, never slipshod, about a matter of business. Owning the property through her Board of Waxworks was safe enough, still it was sound business to set another grip on it to cover accidents, and she did it. Her barkers (what a curious name; I wonder if it is copyrighted); her barkers persistently advertise to the public her generosity in giving away a piece of land which cost her a trifle, and a two—hundred—and—fifty—thousand—dollar church which cost her nothing; and they can hardly speak of the unselfishness of it without breaking down and crying; yet they know she gave nothing away, and never intended to. However, such is the human race. Often it does seem such a pity that Noah and his party did not miss the boat. Some of the hostiles think that Mrs. Eddy's idea in protecting this property in the interest of her heirs, and in accumulating a great money fortune, is, that she may leave her natural heirs well provided for when she goes. I think it is a mistake. I think she is of late years giving herself large concern about only one interest-her power and glory, and the perpetuation and worship of her Name—with a capital N. Her Church is her pet heir, and I think it will get her wealth. It is the torch which is to light the world and the ages with her glory. I think she once prized money for the ease and comfort it could bring, the showy vanities it could furnish, and the social promotion it could command; for we have seen that she was born into the world with little ways and instincts and aspirations and affectations that are duplicates of our own. I do not think her money-passion has ever diminished in ferocity, I do not think that she has ever allowed a dollar that had no friends to get by her alive, but I think her reason for wanting it has changed. I think she wants it now to increase and establish and perpetuate her power and glory with, not to add to her comforts and luxuries, not to furnish paint and fuss and feathers for vain display. I think her ambitions have soared away above the fuss-and-feather stage. She still likes the little shows and vanities—a fact which she exposed in a public utterance two or three days ago when she was not noticing—but I think she does not place a large value upon them now. She could build a mighty and far-shining brass-mounted palace if she wanted to, but she does not do it. She would have had that kind of an ambition in the early scrabbling times. She could go to England to-day and be worshiped by earls, and get a comet's attention from the million, if she cared for such things. She would have gone in the early scrabbling days for much less than an earl, and been vain of it, and glad to show off before the remains of the Scotch kin. But those things are very small to her now—next to invisible, observed through the cloud-rack from the dizzy summit where she perches in these great days. She does not want that church property for herself. It is worth but a quarter of a million—a sum she could call in from her far-spread flocks to-morrow with a lift of her hand. Not a squeeze of it, just a lift. It would come without a murmur; come gratefully, come gladly. And if her glory stood in more need of the money in Boston than it does where her flocks are propagating it, she would lift the hand, I think. She is still reaching for the Dollar, she will continue to reach for it; but not that she may spend it upon herself; not that she may spend it upon charities; not that she may indemnify an early deprivation and clothe herself in a blaze of North Adams gauds; not that she may have nine breeds of pie for breakfast, as only the rich New-Englander can; not that she may indulge any petty material vanity or appetite that once was hers and prized and nursed, but that she may apply that Dollar to statelier uses, and place it where it may cast the metallic sheen of her glory farthest across the receding expanses of the globe. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Mark Twain (2004). Christian Science. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/3187/pg3187-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

THE CHURCH EDIFICE

Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc — Volume 1 by Mark Twain, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . The Governor Speeds Joan here The Governor Speeds Joan After a few days, Laxart took Joan to Vaucouleurs, and found lodging and guardianship for her with Catherine Royer, a wheelwright’s wife, an honest and good woman. Joan went to mass regularly, she helped do the housework, earning her keep in that way, and if any wished to talk with her about her mission—and many did—she talked freely, making no concealments regarding the matter now. I was soon housed near by, and witnessed the effects which followed. At once the tidings spread that a young girl was come who was appointed of God to save France. The common people flocked in crowds to look at her and speak with her, and her fair young loveliness won the half of their belief, and her deep earnestness and transparent sincerity won the other half. The well-to-do remained away and scoffed, but that is their way. Next, a prophecy of Merlin’s, more than eight hundred years old, was called to mind, which said that in a far future time France would be lost by a woman and restored by a woman. France was now, for the first time, lost—and by a woman, Isabel of Bavaria, her base Queen; doubtless this fair and pure young girl was commissioned of Heaven to complete the prophecy. This gave the growing interest a new and powerful impulse; the excitement rose higher and higher, and hope and faith along with it; and so from Vaucouleurs wave after wave of this inspiring enthusiasm flowed out over the land, far and wide, invading all the villages and refreshing and revivifying the perishing children of France; and from these villages came people who wanted to see for themselves, hear for themselves; and they did see and hear, and believe. They filled the town; they more than filled it; inns and lodgings were packed, and yet half of the inflow had to go without shelter. And still they came, winter as it was, for when a man’s soul is starving, what does he care for meat and roof so he can but get that nobler hunger fed? Day after day, and still day after day the great tide rose. Domremy was dazed, amazed, stupefied, and said to itself, “Was this world-wonder in our familiar midst all these years and we too dull to see it?” Jean and Pierre went out from the village, stared at and envied like the great and fortunate of the earth, and their progress to Vaucouleurs was like a triumph, all the country-side flocking to see and salute the brothers of one with whom angels had spoken face to face, and into whose hands by command of God they had delivered the destinies of France. The brothers brought the parents’ blessing and godspeed to Joan, and their promise to bring it to her in person later; and so, with this culminating happiness in her heart and the high hope it inspired, she went and confronted the governor again. But he was no more tractable than he had been before. He refused to send her to the King. She was disappointed, but in no degree discouraged. She said: “I must still come to you until I get the men-at-arms; for so it is commanded, and I may not disobey. I must go to the Dauphin, though I go on my knees.” I and the two brothers were with Joan daily, to see the people that came and hear what they said; and one day, sure enough, the Sieur Jean de Metz came. He talked with her in a petting and playful way, as one talks with children, and said: “What are you doing here, my little maid? Will they drive the King out of France, and shall we all turn English?” She answered him in her tranquil, serious way: “I am come to bid Robert de Baudricourt take or send me to the King, but he does not heed my words.” “Ah, you have an admirable persistence, truly; a whole year has not turned you from your wish. I saw you when you came before.” Joan said, as tranquilly as before: “It is not a wish, it is a purpose. He will grant it. I can wait.” “Ah, perhaps it will not be wise to make too sure of that, my child. These governors are stubborn people to deal with. In case he shall not grant your prayer—” “He will grant it. He must. It is not a matter of choice.” The gentleman’s playful mood began to disappear—one could see that, by his face. Joan’s earnestness was affecting him. It always happened that people who began in jest with her ended by being in earnest. They soon began to perceive depths in her that they had not suspected; and then her manifest sincerity and the rocklike steadfastness of her convictions were forces which cowed levity, and it could not maintain its self-respect in their presence. The Sieur de Metz was thoughtful for a moment or two, then he began, quite soberly: “Is it necessary that you go to the King soon?—that is, I mean—” “Before Mid-Lent, even though I wear away my legs to the knees!” She said it with that sort of repressed fieriness that means so much when a person’s heart is in a thing. You could see the response in that nobleman’s face; you could see his eye light up; there was sympathy there. He said, most earnestly: “God knows I think you should have the men-at-arms, and that somewhat would come of it. What is it that you would do? What is your hope and purpose?” “To rescue France. And it is appointed that I shall do it. For no one else in the world, neither kings, nor dukes, no any other, can recover the kingdom of France, and there is no help but in me.” The words had a pleading and pathetic sound, and they touched that good nobleman. I saw it plainly. Joan dropped her voice a little, and said: “But indeed I would rather spin with my poor mother, for this is not my calling; but I must go and do it, for it is my Lord’s will.” “Who is your Lord?” “He is God.” Then the Sieur de Metz, following the impressive old feudal fashion, knelt and laid his hands within Joan’s in sign of fealty, and made oath that by God’s help he himself would take her to the king. The next day came the Sieur Bertrand de Poulengy, and he also pledged his oath and knightly honor to abide with her and follow her witherosever she might lead. This day, too, toward evening, a great rumor went flying abroad through the town—namely, that the very governor himself was going to visit the young girl in her humble lodgings. So in the morning the streets and lanes were packed with people waiting to see if this strange thing would indeed happen. And happen it did. The governor rode in state, attended by his guards, and the news of it went everywhere, and made a great sensation, and modified the scoffings of the people of quality and raised Joan’s credit higher than ever. The governor had made up his mind to one thing: Joan was either a witch or a saint, and he meant to find out which it was. So he brought a priest with him to exorcise the devil that was in her in case there was one there. The priest performed his office, but found no devil. He merely hurt Joan’s feelings and offended her piety without need, for he had already confessed her before this, and should have known, if he knew anything, that devils cannot abide the confessional, but utter cries of anguish and the most profane and furious cursings whenever they are confronted with that holy office. The governor went away troubled and full of thought, and not knowing what to do. And while he pondered and studied, several days went by and the 14th of February was come. Then Joan went to the castle and said: “In God’s name, Robert de Baudricourt, you are too slow about sending me, and have caused damage thereby, for this day the Dauphin’s cause has lost a battle near Orleans, and will suffer yet greater injury if you do not send me to him soon.” The governor was perplexed by this speech, and said: “To-day, child, to-day? How can you know what has happened in that region to-day? It would take eight or ten days for the word to come.” “My Voices have brought the word to me, and it is true. A battle was lost to-day, and you are in fault to delay me so.” The governor walked the floor awhile, talking within himself, but letting a great oath fall outside now and then; and finally he said: “Harkye! go in peace, and wait. If it shall turn out as you say, I will give you the letter and send you to the King, and not otherwise.” Joan said with fervor: “Now God be thanked, these waiting days are almost done. In nine days you will fetch me the letter.” Already the people of Vaucouleurs had given her a horse and had armed and equipped her as a soldier. She got no chance to try the horse and see if she could ride it, for her great first duty was to abide at her post and lift up the hopes and spirits of all who would come to talk with her, and prepare them to help in the rescue and regeneration of the kingdom. This occupied every waking moment she had. But it was no matter. There was nothing she could not learn—and in the briefest time, too. Her horse would find this out in the first hour. Meantime the brothers and I took the horse in turn and began to learn to ride. And we had teaching in the use of the sword and other arms also. On the 20th Joan called her small army together—the two knights and her two brothers and me—for a private council of war. No, it was not a council, that is not the right name, for she did not consult with us, she merely gave us orders. She mapped out the course she would travel toward the King, and did it like a person perfectly versed in geography; and this itinerary of daily marches was so arranged as to avoid here and there peculiarly dangerous regions by flank movements—which showed that she knew her political geography as intimately as she knew her physical geography; yet she had never had a day’s schooling, of course, and was without education. I was astonished, but thought her Voices must have taught her. But upon reflection I saw that this was not so. By her references to what this and that and the other person had told her, I perceived that she had been diligently questioning those crowds of visiting strangers, and that out of them she had patiently dug all this mass of invaluable knowledge. The two knights were filled with wonder at her good sense and sagacity. She commanded us to make preparations to travel by night and sleep by day in concealment, as almost the whole of our long journey would be through the enemy’s country. Also, she commanded that we should keep the date of our departure a secret, since she meant to get away unobserved. Otherwise we should be sent off with a grand demonstration which would advertise us to the enemy, and we should be ambushed and captured somewhere. Finally she said: “Nothing remains, now, but that I confide to you the date of our departure, so that you may make all needful preparation in time, leaving nothing to be done in haste and badly at the last moment. We march the 23d, at eleven of the clock at night.” Then we were dismissed. The two knights were startled—yes, and troubled; and the Sieur Bertrand said: “Even if the governor shall really furnish the letter and the escort, he still may not do it in time to meet the date she has chosen. Then how can she venture to name that date? It is a great risk—a great risk to select and decide upon the date, in this state of uncertainty.” I said: “Since she has named the 23d, we may trust her. The Voices have told her, I think. We shall do best to obey.” We did obey. Joan’s parents were notified to come before the 23d, but prudence forbade that they be told why this limit was named. All day, the 23d, she glanced up wistfully whenever new bodies of strangers entered the house, but her parents did not appear. Still she was not discouraged, but hoped on. But when night fell at last, her hopes perished, and the tears came; however, she dashed them away, and said: “It was to be so, no doubt; no doubt it was so ordered; I must bear it, and will.” De Metz tried to comfort her by saying: “The governor sends no word; it may be that they will come to-morrow, and—” He got no further, for she interrupted him, saying: “To what good end? We start at eleven to-night.” And it was so. At ten the governor came, with his guard and arms, with horses and equipment for me and for the brothers, and gave Joan a letter to the King. Then he took off his sword, and belted it about her waist with his own hands, and said: “You said true, child. The battle was lost, on the day you said. So I have kept my word. Now go—come of it what may.” Joan gave him thanks, and he went his way. The lost battle was the famous disaster that is called in history the Battle of the Herrings. All the lights in the house were at once put out, and a little while after, when the streets had become dark and still, we crept stealthily through them and out at the western gate and rode away under whip and spur. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Mark Twain (2004). Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc — Volume 1. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/2874/pg2874-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

The Governor Speeds Joan

Days and days went by now, and no Satan

The Secret Adversary by Agatha Christie, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN CHAPTER VI. A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN A veil might with profit be drawn over the events of the next half-hour. Suffice it to say that no such person as “Inspector Brown” was known to Scotland Yard. The photograph of Jane Finn, which would have been of the utmost value to the police in tracing her, was lost beyond recovery. Once again “Mr. Brown” had triumphed. The immediate result of this set-back was to effect a rapprochement between Julius Hersheimmer and the Young Adventurers. All barriers went down with a crash, and Tommy and Tuppence felt they had known the young American all their lives. They abandoned the discreet reticence of “private inquiry agents,” and revealed to him the whole history of the joint venture, whereat the young man declared himself “tickled to death.” He turned to Tuppence at the close of the narration. “I’ve always had a kind of idea that English girls were just a mite moss-grown. Old-fashioned and sweet, you know, but scared to move round without a footman or a maiden aunt. I guess I’m a bit behind the times!” The upshot of these confidential relations was that Tommy and Tuppence took up their abode forthwith at the Ritz, in order, as Tuppence put it, to keep in touch with Jane Finn’s only living relation. “And put like that,” she added confidentially to Tommy, “nobody could boggle at the expense!” Nobody did, which was the great thing. “And now,” said the young lady on the morning after their installation, “to work!” Mr. Beresford put down the Daily Mail, which he was reading, and applauded with somewhat unnecessary vigour. He was politely requested by his colleague not to be an ass. “Dash it all, Tommy, we’ve got to do something for our money.” Tommy sighed. “Yes, I fear even the dear old Government will not support us at the Ritz in idleness for ever.” “Therefore, as I said before, we must do something.” “Well,” said Tommy, picking up the Daily Mail again, “do it. I shan’t stop you.” “You see,” continued Tuppence. “I’ve been thinking——” She was interrupted by a fresh bout of applause. “It’s all very well for you to sit there being funny, Tommy. It would do you no harm to do a little brain work too.” “My union, Tuppence, my union! It does not permit me to work before 11 a.m.” “Tommy, do you want something thrown at you? It is absolutely essential that we should without delay map out a plan of campaign.” “Hear, hear!” “Well, let’s do it.” Tommy laid his paper finally aside. “There’s something of the simplicity of the truly great mind about you, Tuppence. Fire ahead. I’m listening.” “To begin with,” said Tuppence, “what have we to go upon?” “Absolutely nothing,” said Tommy cheerily. “Wrong!” Tuppence wagged an energetic finger. “We have two distinct clues.” “What are they?” “First clue, we know one of the gang.” “Whittington?” “Yes. I’d recognize him anywhere.” “Hum,” said Tommy doubtfully, “I don’t call that much of a clue. You don’t know where to look for him, and it’s about a thousand to one against your running against him by accident.” “I’m not so sure about that,” replied Tuppence thoughtfully. “I’ve often noticed that once coincidences start happening they go on happening in the most extraordinary way. I dare say it’s some natural law that we haven’t found out. Still, as you say, we can’t rely on that. But there are places in London where simply every one is bound to turn up sooner or later. Piccadilly Circus, for instance. One of my ideas was to take up my stand there every day with a tray of flags.” “What about meals?” inquired the practical Tommy. “How like a man! What does mere food matter?” “That’s all very well. You’ve just had a thundering good breakfast. No one’s got a better appetite than you have, Tuppence, and by tea-time you’d be eating the flags, pins and all. But, honestly, I don’t think much of the idea. Whittington mayn’t be in London at all.” “That’s true. Anyway, I think clue No. 2 is more promising.” “Let’s hear it.” “It’s nothing much. Only a Christian name—Rita. Whittington mentioned it that day.” “Are you proposing a third advertisement: Wanted, female crook, answering to the name of Rita?” “I am not. I propose to reason in a logical manner. That man, Danvers, was shadowed on the way over, wasn’t he? And it’s more likely to have been a woman than a man——” “I don’t see that at all.” “I am absolutely certain that it would be a woman, and a good-looking one,” replied Tuppence calmly. “On these technical points I bow to your decision,” murmured Mr. Beresford. “Now, obviously this woman, whoever she was, was saved.” “How do you make that out?” “If she wasn’t, how would they have known Jane Finn had got the papers?” “Correct. Proceed, O Sherlock!” “Now there’s just a chance, I admit it’s only a chance, that this woman may have been ‘Rita.’” “And if so?” “If so, we’ve got to hunt through the survivors of the Lusitania till we find her.” “Then the first thing is to get a list of the survivors.” “I’ve got it. I wrote a long list of things I wanted to know, and sent it to Mr. Carter. I got his reply this morning, and among other things it encloses the official statement of those saved from the Lusitania. How’s that for clever little Tuppence?” “Full marks for industry, zero for modesty. But the great point is, is there a ‘Rita’ on the list?” “That’s just what I don’t know,” confessed Tuppence. “Don’t know?” “Yes. Look here.” Together they bent over the list. “You see, very few Christian names are given. They’re nearly all Mrs. or Miss.” Tommy nodded. “That complicates matters,” he murmured thoughtfully. Tuppence gave her characteristic “terrier” shake. “Well, we’ve just got to get down to it, that’s all. We’ll start with the London area. Just note down the addresses of any of the females who live in London or roundabout, while I put on my hat.” Five minutes later the young couple emerged into Piccadilly, and a few seconds later a taxi was bearing them to The Laurels, Glendower Road, N.7, the residence of Mrs. Edgar Keith, whose name figured first in a list of seven reposing in Tommy’s pocket-book. The Laurels was a dilapidated house, standing back from the road with a few grimy bushes to support the fiction of a front garden. Tommy paid off the taxi, and accompanied Tuppence to the front door bell. As she was about to ring it, he arrested her hand. “What are you going to say?” “What am I going to say? Why, I shall say—Oh dear, I don’t know. It’s very awkward.” “I thought as much,” said Tommy with satisfaction. “How like a woman! No foresight! Now just stand aside, and see how easily the mere male deals with the situation.” He pressed the bell. Tuppence withdrew to a suitable spot. A slatternly looking servant, with an extremely dirty face and a pair of eyes that did not match, answered the door. Tommy had produced a notebook and pencil. “Good morning,” he said briskly and cheerfully. “From the Hampstead Borough Council. The new Voting Register. Mrs. Edgar Keith lives here, does she not?” “Yaas,” said the servant. “Christian name?” asked Tommy, his pencil poised. “Missus’s? Eleanor Jane.” “Eleanor,” spelt Tommy. “Any sons or daughters over twenty-one?” “Naow.” “Thank you.” Tommy closed the notebook with a brisk snap. “Good morning.” The servant volunteered her first remark: “I thought perhaps as you’d come about the gas,” she observed cryptically, and shut the door. Tommy rejoined his accomplice. “You see, Tuppence,” he observed. “Child’s play to the masculine mind.” “I don’t mind admitting that for once you’ve scored handsomely. I should never have thought of that.” “Good wheeze, wasn’t it? And we can repeat it ad lib.” Lunch-time found the young couple attacking a steak and chips in an obscure hostelry with avidity. They had collected a Gladys Mary and a Marjorie, been baffled by one change of address, and had been forced to listen to a long lecture on universal suffrage from a vivacious American lady whose Christian name had proved to be Sadie. “Ah!” said Tommy, imbibing a long draught of beer, “I feel better. Where’s the next draw?” The notebook lay on the table between them. Tuppence picked it up. “Mrs. Vandemeyer,” she read, “20 South Audley Mansions. Miss Wheeler, 43 Clapington Road, Battersea. She’s a lady’s maid, as far as I remember, so probably won’t be there, and, anyway, she’s not likely.” “Then the Mayfair lady is clearly indicated as the first port of call.” “Tommy, I’m getting discouraged.” “Buck up, old bean. We always knew it was an outside chance. And, anyway, we’re only starting. If we draw a blank in London, there’s a fine tour of England, Ireland and Scotland before us.” “True,” said Tuppence, her flagging spirits reviving. “And all expenses paid! But, oh, Tommy, I do like things to happen quickly. So far, adventure has succeeded adventure, but this morning has been dull as dull.” “You must stifle this longing for vulgar sensation, Tuppence. Remember that if Mr. Brown is all he is reported to be, it’s a wonder that he has not ere now done us to death. That’s a good sentence, quite a literary flavour about it.” “You’re really more conceited than I am—with less excuse! Ahem! But it certainly is queer that Mr. Brown has not yet wreaked vengeance upon us. (You see, I can do it too.) We pass on our way unscathed.” “Perhaps he doesn’t think us worth bothering about,” suggested the young man simply. Tuppence received the remark with great disfavour. “How horrid you are, Tommy. Just as though we didn’t count.” “Sorry, Tuppence. What I meant was that we work like moles in the dark, and that he has no suspicion of our nefarious schemes. Ha ha!” “Ha ha!” echoed Tuppence approvingly, as she rose. South Audley Mansions was an imposing-looking block of flats just off Park Lane. No. 20 was on the second floor. Tommy had by this time the glibness born of practice. He rattled off the formula to the elderly woman, looking more like a housekeeper than a servant, who opened the door to him. “Christian name?” “Margaret.” Tommy spelt it, but the other interrupted him. “No, g u e.” “Oh, Marguerite; French way, I see.” He paused, then plunged boldly. “We had her down as Rita Vandemeyer, but I suppose that’s incorrect?” “She’s mostly called that, sir, but Marguerite’s her name.” “Thank you. That’s all. Good morning.” Hardly able to contain his excitement, Tommy hurried down the stairs. Tuppence was waiting at the angle of the turn. “You heard?” “Yes. Oh, Tommy!” Tommy squeezed her arm sympathetically. “I know, old thing. I feel the same.” “It’s—it’s so lovely to think of things—and then for them really to happen!” cried Tuppence enthusiastically. Her hand was still in Tommy’s. They had reached the entrance hall. There were footsteps on the stairs above them, and voices. Suddenly, to Tommy’s complete surprise, Tuppence dragged him into the little space by the side of the lift where the shadow was deepest. “What the——” “Hush!” Two men came down the stairs and passed out through the entrance. Tuppence’s hand closed tighter on Tommy’s arm. “Quick—follow them. I daren’t. He might recognize me. I don’t know who the other man is, but the bigger of the two was Whittington.” About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Agatha Christie (1998). The Secret Adversary. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1155/pg1155-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html.

A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . THE GOLDFISH POND CHAPTER IX. THE GOLDFISH POND We walked back to the house together. There was no sign of the inspector. Poirot paused on the terrace and stood with his back to the house, slowly turning his head from side to side. “Une belle propriété,” he said at last appreciatively. “Who inherits it?” His words gave me almost a shock. It is an odd thing, but until that moment the question of inheritance had never come into my head. Poirot watched me keenly. “It is a new idea to you, that,” he said at last. “You had not thought of it before—eh?” “No,” I said truthfully. “I wish I had.” He looked at me again curiously. “I wonder just what you mean by that,” he said thoughtfully. “Ah! no,” as I was about to speak. “Inutile! You would not tell me your real thought.” “Every one has something to hide,” I quoted, smiling. “Exactly.” “You still believe that?” “More than ever, my friend. But it is not easy to hide things from Hercule Poirot. He has a knack of finding out.” He descended the steps of the Dutch garden as he spoke. “Let us walk a little,” he said over his shoulder. “The air is pleasant to-day.” I followed him. He led me down a path to the left enclosed in yew hedges. A walk led down the middle, bordered each side with formal flower beds, and at the end was a round paved recess with a seat and a pond of goldfish. Instead of pursuing the path to the end, Poirot took another which wound up the side of a wooded slope. In one spot the trees had been cleared away, and a seat had been put. Sitting there one had a splendid view over the countryside, and one looked right down on the paved recess and the goldfish pond. “England is very beautiful,” said Poirot, his eyes straying over the prospect. Then he smiled. “And so are English girls,” he said in a lower tone. “Hush, my friend, and look at the pretty picture below us.” It was then that I saw Flora. She was moving along the path we had just left and she was humming a little snatch of song. Her step was more dancing than walking, and in spite of her black dress, there was nothing but joy in her whole attitude. She gave a sudden pirouette on her toes, and her black draperies swung out. At the same time she flung her head back and laughed outright. As she did so a man stepped out from the trees. It was Hector Blunt. The girl started. Her expression changed a little. “How you startled me—I didn’t see you.” Blunt said nothing, but stood looking at her for a minute or two in silence. “What I like about you,” said Flora, with a touch of malice, “is your cheery conversation.” I fancy that at that Blunt reddened under his tan. His voice, when he spoke, sounded different—it had a curious sort of humility in it. “Never was much of a fellow for talking. Not even when I was young.” “That was a very long time ago, I suppose,” said Flora gravely. I caught the undercurrent of laughter in her voice, but I don’t think Blunt did. “Yes,” he said simply, “it was.” “How does it feel to be Methuselah?” asked Flora. This time the laughter was more apparent, but Blunt was following out an idea of his own. “Remember the Johnny who sold his soul to the devil? In return for being made young again? There’s an opera about it.” “Faust, you mean?” “That’s the beggar. Rum story. Some of us would do it if we could.” “Any one would think you were creaking at the joints to hear you talk,” cried Flora, half vexed, half amused. Blunt said nothing for a minute or two. Then he looked away from Flora into the middle distance and observed to an adjacent tree trunk that it was about time he got back to Africa. “Are you going on another expedition—shooting things?” “Expect so. Usually do, you know—shoot things, I mean.” “You shot that head in the hall, didn’t you?” Blunt nodded. Then he jerked out, going rather red, as he did so:— “Care for some decent skins any time? If so, I could get ’em for you.” “Oh! please do,” cried Flora. “Will you really? You won’t forget?” “I shan’t forget,” said Hector Blunt. He added, in a sudden burst of communicativeness:— “Time I went. I’m no good in this sort of life. Haven’t got the manners for it. I’m a rough fellow, no use in society. Never remember the things one’s expected to say. Yes, time I went.” “But you’re not going at once,” cried Flora. “Not—not while we’re in all this trouble. Oh! please. If you go——” She turned away a little. “You want me to stay?” asked Blunt. He spoke deliberately but quite simply. “We all——” “I meant you personally,” said Blunt, with directness. Flora turned slowly back again and met his eyes. “I want you to stay,” she said, “if—if that makes any difference.” “It makes all the difference,” said Blunt. There was a moment’s silence. They sat down on the stone seat by the goldfish pond. It seemed as though neither of them knew quite what to say next. “It—it’s such a lovely morning,” said Flora at last. “You know, I can’t help feeling happy, in spite—in spite of everything. That’s awful, I suppose?” “Quite natural,” said Blunt. “Never saw your uncle until two years ago, did you? Can’t be expected to grieve very much. Much better to have no humbug about it.” “There’s something awfully consoling about you,” said Flora. “You make things so simple.” “Things are simple as a rule,” said the big game hunter. “Not always,” said Flora. Her voice had lowered itself, and I saw Blunt turn and look at her, bringing his eyes back from (apparently) the coast of Africa to do so. He evidently put his own construction on her change of tone, for he said, after a minute or two, in rather an abrupt manner:— “I say, you know, you mustn’t worry. About that young chap, I mean. Inspector’s an ass. Everybody knows—utterly absurd to think he could have done it. Man from outside. Burglar chap. That’s the only possible solution.” Flora turned to look at him. “You really think so?” “Don’t you?” said Blunt quickly. “I—oh, yes, of course.” Another silence, and then Flora burst out:— “I’m—I’ll tell you why I felt so happy this morning. However heartless you think me, I’d rather tell you. It’s because the lawyer has been—Mr. Hammond. He told us about the will. Uncle Roger has left me twenty thousand pounds. Think of it—twenty thousand beautiful pounds.” Blunt looked surprised. “Does it mean so much to you?” “Mean much to me? Why, it’s everything. Freedom—life—no more scheming and scraping and lying——” “Lying?” said Blunt, sharply interrupting. Flora seemed taken aback for a minute. “You know what I mean,” she said uncertainly. “Pretending to be thankful for all the nasty castoff things rich relations give you. Last year’s coats and skirts and hats.” “Don’t know much about ladies’ clothes; should have said you were always very well turned out.” “It’s cost me something, though,” said Flora in a low voice. “Don’t let’s talk of horrid things. I’m so happy. I’m free. Free to do what I like. Free not to——” She stopped suddenly. “Not to what?” asked Blunt quickly. “I forget now. Nothing important.” Blunt had a stick in his hand, and he thrust it into the pond, poking at something. “What are you doing, Major Blunt?” “There’s something bright down there. Wondered what it was—looks like a gold brooch. Now I’ve stirred up the mud and it’s gone.” “Perhaps it’s a crown,” suggested Flora. “Like the one Mélisande saw in the water.” “Mélisande,” said Blunt reflectively—“she’s in an opera, isn’t she?” “Yes, you seem to know a lot about operas.” “People take me sometimes,” said Blunt sadly. “Funny idea of pleasure—worse racket than the natives make with their tom-toms.” Flora laughed. “I remember Mélisande,” continued Blunt, “married an old chap old enough to be her father.” He threw a small piece of flint into the goldfish pond. Then, with a change of manner, he turned to Flora. “Miss Ackroyd, can I do anything? About Paton, I mean. I know how dreadfully anxious you must be.” “Thank you,” said Flora in a cold voice. “There is really nothing to be done. Ralph will be all right. I’ve got hold of the most wonderful detective in the world, and he’s going to find out all about it.” For some time I had felt uneasy as to our position. We were not exactly eavesdropping, since the two in the garden below had only to lift their heads to see us. Nevertheless, I should have drawn attention to our presence before now, had not my companion put a warning pressure on my arm. Clearly he wished me to remain silent. But now he rose briskly to his feet, clearing his throat. “I demand pardon,” he cried. “I cannot allow mademoiselle thus extravagantly to compliment me, and not draw attention to my presence. They say the listener hears no good of himself, but that is not the case this time. To spare my blushes, I must join you and apologize.” He hurried down the path with me close behind him, and joined the others by the pond. “This is M. Hercule Poirot,” said Flora. “I expect you’ve heard of him.” Poirot bowed. “I know Major Blunt by reputation,” he said politely. “I am glad to have encountered you, monsieur. I am in need of some information that you can give me.” Blunt looked at him inquiringly. “When did you last see M. Ackroyd alive?” “At dinner.” “And you neither saw nor heard anything of him after that?” “Didn’t see him. Heard his voice.” “How was that?” “I strolled out on the terrace——” “Pardon me, what time was this?” “About half-past nine. I was walking up and down smoking in front of the drawing-room window. I heard Ackroyd talking in his study——” Poirot stooped and removed a microscopic weed. “Surely you couldn’t hear voices in the study from that part of the terrace,” he murmured. He was not looking at Blunt, but I was, and to my intense surprise, I saw the latter flush. “Went as far as the corner,” he explained unwillingly. “Ah! indeed?” said Poirot. In the mildest manner he conveyed an impression that more was wanted. “Thought I saw—a woman disappearing into the bushes. Just a gleam of white, you know. Must have been mistaken. It was while I was standing at the corner of the terrace that I heard Ackroyd’s voice speaking to that secretary of his.” “Speaking to Mr. Geoffrey Raymond?” “Yes—that’s what I supposed at the time. Seems I was wrong.” “Mr. Ackroyd didn’t address him by name?” “Oh, no.” “Then, if I may ask, why did you think——?” Blunt explained laboriously. “Took it for granted that it be Raymond, because he had said just before I came out that he was taking some papers to Ackroyd. Never thought of it being anybody else.” would “Can you remember what the words you heard were?” “Afraid I can’t. Something quite ordinary and unimportant. Only caught a scrap of it. I was thinking of something else at the time.” “It is of no importance,” murmured Poirot. “Did you move a chair back against the wall when you went into the study after the body was discovered?” “Chair? No—why should I?” Poirot shrugged his shoulders but did not answer. He turned to Flora. “There is one thing I should like to know from you, mademoiselle. When you were examining the things in the silver table with Dr. Sheppard, was the dagger in its place, or was it not?” Flora’s chin shot up. “Inspector Raglan has been asking me that,” she said resentfully. “I’ve told him, and I’ll tell you. I’m perfectly certain the dagger was there. He thinks it was and that Ralph sneaked it later in the evening. And—and he doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’m saying it to—to shield Ralph.” not “And aren’t you?” I asked gravely. Flora stamped her foot. “You, too, Dr. Sheppard! Oh! it’s too bad.” Poirot tactfully made a diversion. “It is true what I heard you say, Major Blunt. There is something that glitters in this pond. Let us see if I can reach it.” He knelt down by the pond, baring his arm to the elbow, and lowered it in very slowly, so as not to disturb the bottom of the pond. But in spite of all his precautions the mud eddied and swirled, and he was forced to draw his arm out again empty-handed. He gazed ruefully at the mud upon his arm. I offered him my handkerchief, which he accepted with fervent protestations of thanks. Blunt looked at his watch. “Nearly lunch time,” he said. “We’d better be getting back to the house.” “You will lunch with us, M. Poirot?” asked Flora. “I should like you to meet my mother. She is—very fond of Ralph.” The little man bowed. “I shall be delighted, mademoiselle.” “And you will stay, too, won’t you, Dr. Sheppard?” I hesitated. “Oh, do!” I wanted to, so I accepted the invitation without further ceremony. We set out towards the house, Flora and Blunt walking ahead. “What hair,” said Poirot to me in a low tone, nodding towards Flora. “The real gold! They will make a pretty couple. She and the dark, handsome Captain Paton. Will they not?” I looked at him inquiringly, but he began to fuss about a few microscopic drops of water on his coat sleeve. The man reminded me in some ways of a cat. His green eyes and his finicking habits. “And all for nothing, too,” I said sympathetically. “I wonder what it was in the pond?” “Would you like to see?” asked Poirot. I stared at him. He nodded. “My good friend,” he said gently and reproachfully, “Hercule Poirot does not run the risk of disarranging his costume without being sure of attaining his object. To do so would be ridiculous and absurd. I am never ridiculous.” “But you brought your hand out empty,” I objected. “There are times when it is necessary to have discretion. Do you tell your patients everything—everything, doctor? I think not. Nor do you tell your excellent sister everything either, is it not so? Before showing my empty hand, I dropped what it contained into my other hand. You shall see what that was.” He held out his left hand, palm open. On it lay a little circlet of gold. A woman’s wedding ring. I took it from him. “Look inside,” commanded Poirot. I did so. Inside was an inscription in fine writing:— From R., March 13th. I looked at Poirot, but he was busy inspecting his appearance in a tiny pocket glass. He paid particular attention to his mustaches, and none at all to me. I saw that he did not intend to be communicative. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Agatha Christie (2006). The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/69087/pg69087-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

THE GOLDFISH POND

Rainbow Valley by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . A DOUBLE VICTORY CHAPTER XVII. A DOUBLE VICTORY Norman Douglas came to church the first Sunday in November and made all the sensation he desired. Mr. Meredith shook hands with him absently on the church steps and hoped dreamily that Mrs. Douglas was well. “She wasn’t very well just before I buried her ten years ago, but I reckon she has better health now,” boomed Norman, to the horror and amusement of every one except Mr. Meredith, who was absorbed in wondering if he had made the last head of his sermon as clear as he might have, and hadn’t the least idea what Norman had said to him or he to Norman. Norman intercepted Faith at the gate. “Kept my word, you see—kept my word, Red Rose. I’m free now till the first Sunday in December. Fine sermon, girl—fine sermon. Your father has more in his head than he carries on his face. But he contradicted himself once—tell him he contradicted himself. And tell him I want that brimstone sermon in December. Great way to wind up the old year—with a taste of hell, you know. And what’s the matter with a nice tasty discourse on heaven for New Year’s? Though it wouldn’t be half as interesting as hell, girl—not half. Only I’d like to know what your father thinks about heaven—he can think—rarest thing in the world—a person who can think. But he did contradict himself. Ha, ha! Here’s a question you might ask him sometime when he’s awake, girl. ‘Can God make a stone so big He couldn’t lift it Himself?’ Don’t forget now. I want to hear his opinion on it. I’ve stumped many a minister with that, girl.” Faith was glad to escape him and run home. Dan Reese, standing among the crowd of boys at the gate, looked at her and shaped his mouth into “pig-girl,” but dared not utter it aloud just there. Next day in school was a different matter. At noon recess Faith encountered Dan in the little spruce plantation behind the school and Dan shouted once more, “Pig-girl! Pig-girl! Rooster-girl!” Walter Blythe suddenly rose from a mossy cushion behind a little clump of firs where he had been reading. He was very pale, but his eyes blazed. “You hold your tongue, Dan Reese!” he said. “Oh, hello, Miss Walter,” retorted Dan, not at all abashed. He vaulted airily to the top of the rail fence and chanted insultingly, “Cowardy, cowardy-custard Stole a pot of mustard, Cowardy, cowardy-custard!” “You are a coincidence!” said Walter scornfully, turning still whiter. He had only a very hazy idea what a coincidence was, but Dan had none at all and thought it must be something peculiarly opprobrious. “Yah! Cowardy!” he yelled gain. “Your mother writes lies—lies—lies! And Faith Meredith is a pig-girl—a—pig-girl—a pig-girl! And she’s a rooster-girl—a rooster-girl—a rooster-girl! Yah! Cowardy—cowardy—cust—” Dan got no further. Walter had hurled himself across the intervening space and knocked Dan off the fence backward with one well-directed blow. Dan’s sudden inglorious sprawl was greeted with a burst of laughter and a clapping of hands from Faith. Dan sprang up, purple with rage, and began to climb the fence. But just then the school-bell rang and Dan knew what happened to boys who were late during Mr. Hazard’s regime. “We’ll fight this out,” he howled. “Cowardy!” “Any time you like,” said Walter. “Oh, no, no, Walter,” protested Faith. “Don’t fight him. I don’t mind what he says—I wouldn’t condescend to mind the like of him.” “He insulted you and he insulted my mother,” said Walter, with the same deadly calm. “Tonight after school, Dan.” “I’ve got to go right home from school to pick taters after the harrows, dad says,” answered Dan sulkily. “But to-morrow night’ll do.” “All right—here to-morrow night,” agreed Walter. “And I’ll smash your sissy-face for you,” promised Dan. Walter shuddered—not so much from fear of the threat as from repulsion over the ugliness and vulgarity of it. But he held his head high and marched into school. Faith followed in a conflict of emotions. She hated to think of Walter fighting that little sneak, but oh, he had been splendid! And he was going to fight for her—Faith Meredith—to punish her insulter! Of course he would win—such eyes spelled victory. Faith’s confidence in her champion had dimmed a little by evening, however. Walter had seemed so very quiet and dull the rest of the day in school. “If it were only Jem,” she sighed to Una, as they sat on Hezekiah Pollock’s tombstone in the graveyard. “He is such a fighter—he could finish Dan off in no time. But Walter doesn’t know much about fighting.” “I’m so afraid he’ll be hurt,” sighed Una, who hated fighting and couldn’t understand the subtle, secret exultation she divined in Faith. “He oughtn’t to be,” said Faith uncomfortably. “He’s every bit as big as Dan.” “But Dan’s so much older,” said Una. “Why, he’s nearly a year older.” “Dan hasn’t done much fighting when you come to count up,” said Faith. “I believe he’s really a coward. He didn’t think Walter would fight, or he wouldn’t have called names before him. Oh, if you could just have seen Walter’s face when he looked at him, Una! It made me shiver—with a nice shiver. He looked just like Sir Galahad in that poem father read us on Saturday.” “I hate the thought of them fighting and I wish it could be stopped,” said Una. “Oh, it’s got to go on now,” cried Faith. “It’s a matter of honour. Don’t you dare tell anyone, Una. If you do I’ll never tell you secrets again!” “I won’t tell,” agreed Una. “But I won’t stay to-morrow to watch the fight. I’m coming right home.” “Oh, all right. I have to be there—it would be mean not to, when Walter is fighting for me. I’m going to tie my colours on his arm—that’s the thing to do when he’s my knight. How lucky Mrs. Blythe gave me that pretty blue hair-ribbon for my birthday! I’ve only worn it twice so it will be almost new. But I wish I was sure Walter would win. It will be so—so humiliating if he doesn’t.” Faith would have been yet more dubious if she could have seen her champion just then. Walter had gone home from school with all his righteous anger at a low ebb and a very nasty feeling in its place. He had to fight Dan Reese the next night—and he didn’t want to—he hated the thought of it. And he kept thinking of it all the time. Not for a minute could he get away from the thought. Would it hurt much? He was terribly afraid that it would hurt. And would he be defeated and shamed? He could not eat any supper worth speaking of. Susan had made a big batch of his favourite monkey-faces, but he could choke only one down. Jem ate four. Walter wondered how he could. How could anybody eat? And how could they all talk gaily as they were doing? There was mother, with her shining eyes and pink cheeks. She didn’t know her son had to fight next day. Would she be so gay if she knew, Walter wondered darkly. Jem had taken Susan’s picture with his new camera and the result was passed around the table and Susan was terribly indignant over it. “I am no beauty, Mrs. Dr. dear, and well I know it, and have always known it,” she said in an aggrieved tone, “but that I am as ugly as that picture makes me out I will never, no, never believe.” Jem laughed over this and Anne laughed again with him. Walter couldn’t endure it. He got up and fled to his room. “That child has got something on his mind, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan. “He has et next to nothing. Do you suppose he is plotting another poem?” Poor Walter was very far removed in spirit from the starry realms of poesy just then. He propped his elbow on his open window-sill and leaned his head drearily on his hands. “Come on down to the shore, Walter,” cried Jem, busting in. “The boys are going to burn the sand-hill grass to-night. Father says we can go. Come on.” At any other time Walter would have been delighted. He gloried in the burning of the sand-hill grass. But now he flatly refused to go, and no arguments or entreaties could move him. Disappointed Jem, who did not care for the long dark walk to Four Winds Point alone, retreated to his museum in the garret and buried himself in a book. He soon forgot his disappointment, revelling with the heroes of old romance, and pausing occasionally to picture himself a famous general, leading his troops to victory on some great battlefield. Walter sat at his window until bedtime. Di crept in, hoping to be told what was wrong, but Walter could not talk of it, even to Di. Talking of it seemed to give it a reality from which he shrank. It was torture enough to think of it. The crisp, withered leaves rustled on the maple trees outside his window. The glow of rose and flame had died out of the hollow, silvery sky, and the full moon was rising gloriously over Rainbow Valley. Afar off, a ruddy woodfire was painting a page of glory on the horizon beyond the hills. It was a sharp, clear evening when far-away sounds were heard distinctly. A fox was barking across the pond; an engine was puffing down at the Glen station; a blue-jay was screaming madly in the maple grove; there was laughter over on the manse lawn. How could people laugh? How could foxes and blue-jays and engines behave as if nothing were going to happen on the morrow? “Oh, I wish it was over,” groaned Walter. He slept very little that night and had hard work choking down his porridge in the morning. Susan was rather lavish in her platefuls. Mr. Hazard found him an unsatisfactory pupil that day. Faith Meredith’s wits seemed to be wool-gathering, too. Dan Reese kept drawing surreptitious pictures of girls, with pig or rooster heads, on his slate and holding them up for all to see. The news of the coming battle had leaked out and most of the boys and many of the girls were in the spruce plantation when Dan and Walter sought it after school. Una had gone home, but Faith was there, having tied her blue ribbon around Walter’s arm. Walter was thankful that neither Jem nor Di nor Nan were among the crowd of spectators. Somehow they had not heard of what was in the wind and had gone home, too. Walter faced Dan quite undauntedly now. At the last moment all his fear had vanished, but he still felt disgust at the idea of fighting. Dan, it was noted, was really paler under his freckles than Walter was. One of the older boys gave the word and Dan struck Walter in the face. Walter reeled a little. The pain of the blow tingled through all his sensitive frame for a moment. Then he felt pain no longer. Something, such as he had never experienced before, seemed to roll over him like a flood. His face flushed crimson, his eyes burned like flame. The scholars of Glen St. Mary school had never dreamed that “Miss Walter” could look like that. He hurled himself forward and closed with Dan like a young wildcat. There were no particular rules in the fights of the Glen school boys. It was catch-as-catch can, and get your blows in anyhow. Walter fought with a savage fury and a joy in the struggle against which Dan could not hold his ground. It was all over very speedily. Walter had no clear consciousness of what he was doing until suddenly the red mist cleared from his sight and he found himself kneeling on the body of the prostrate Dan whose nose—oh, horror!—was spouting blood. “Have you had enough?” demanded Walter through his clenched teeth. Dan sulkily admitted that he had. “My mother doesn’t write lies?” “No.” “Faith Meredith isn’t a pig-girl?” “No.” “Nor a rooster-girl?” “No.” “And I’m not a coward?” “No.” Walter had intended to ask, “And you are a liar?” but pity intervened and he did not humiliate Dan further. Besides, that blood was so horrible. “You can go, then,” he said contemptuously. There was a loud clapping from the boys who were perched on the rail fence, but some of the girls were crying. They were frightened. They had seen schoolboy fights before, but nothing like Walter as he had grappled with Dan. There had been something terrifying about him. They thought he would kill Dan. Now that all was over they sobbed hysterically—except Faith, who still stood tense and crimson cheeked. Walter did not stay for any conqueror’s meed. He sprang over the fence and rushed down the spruce hill to Rainbow Valley. He felt none of the victor’s joy, but he felt a certain calm satisfaction in duty done and honour avenged—mingled with a sickish qualm when he thought of Dan’s gory nose. It had been so ugly, and Walter hated ugliness. Also, he began to realize that he himself was somewhat sore and battered up. His lip was cut and swollen and one eye felt very strange. In Rainbow Valley he encountered Mr. Meredith, who was coming home from an afternoon call on the Miss Wests. That reverend gentleman looked gravely at him. “It seems to me that you have been fighting, Walter?” “Yes, sir,” said Walter, expecting a scolding. “What was it about?” “Dan Reese said my mother wrote lies and that that Faith was a pig-girl,” answered Walter bluntly. “Oh—h! Then you were certainly justified, Walter.” “Do you think it’s right to fight, sir?” asked Walter curiously. “Not always—and not often—but sometimes—yes, sometimes,” said John Meredith. “When womenkind are insulted for instance—as in your case. My motto, Walter, is, don’t fight till you’re sure you ought to, and then put every ounce of you into it. In spite of sundry discolorations I infer that you came off best.” “Yes. I made him take it all back.” “Very good—very good, indeed. I didn’t think you were such a fighter, Walter.” “I never fought before—and I didn’t want to right up to the last—and then,” said Walter, determined to make a clean breast of it, “I liked it while I was at it.” The Rev. John’s eyes twinkled. “You were—a little frightened—at first?” “I was a whole lot frightened,” said honest Walter. “But I’m not going to be frightened any more, sir. Being frightened of things is worse than the things themselves. I’m going to ask father to take me over to Lowbridge to-morrow to get my tooth out.” “Right again. ‘Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears.’ Do you know who wrote that, Walter? It was Shakespeare. Was there any feeling or emotion or experience of the human heart that that wonderful man did not know? When you go home tell your mother I am proud of you.” Walter did not tell her that, however; but he told her all the rest, and she sympathized with him and told him she was glad he had stood up for her and Faith, and she anointed his sore spots and rubbed cologne on his aching head. “Are all mothers as nice as you?” asked Walter, hugging her. “You’re worth standing up for.” Miss Cornelia and Susan were in the living room when Anne came downstairs, and listened to the story with much enjoyment. Susan in particular was highly gratified. “I am real glad to hear he has had a good fight, Mrs. Dr. dear. Perhaps it may knock that poetry nonsense out of him. And I never, no, never could bear that little viper of a Dan Reese. Will you not sit nearer to the fire, Mrs. Marshall Elliott? These November evenings are very chilly.” “Thank you, Susan, I’m not cold. I called at the manse before I came here and got quite warm—though I had to go to the kitchen to do it, for there was no fire anywhere else. The kitchen looked as if it had been stirred up with a stick, believe me. Mr. Meredith wasn’t home. I couldn’t find out where he was, but I have an idea that he was up at the Wests’. Do you know, Anne dearie, they say he has been going there frequently all the fall and people are beginning to think he is going to see Rosemary.” “He would get a very charming wife if he married Rosemary,” said Anne, piling driftwood on the fire. “She is one of the most delightful girls I’ve ever known—truly one of the race of Joseph.” “Ye—s—only she is an Episcopalian,” said Miss Cornelia doubtfully. “Of course, that is better than if she was a Methodist—but I do think Mr. Meredith could find a good enough wife in his own denomination. However, very likely there is nothing in it. It’s only a month ago that I said to him, ‘You ought to marry again, Mr. Meredith.’ He looked as shocked as if I had suggested something improper. ‘My wife is in her grave, Mrs. Elliott,’ he said, in that gentle, saintly way of his. ‘I suppose so,’ I said, ‘or I wouldn’t be advising you to marry again.’ Then he looked more shocked than ever. So I doubt if there is much in this Rosemary story. If a single minister calls twice at a house where there is a single woman all the gossips have it he is courting her.” “It seems to me—if I may presume to say so—that Mr. Meredith is too shy to go courting a second wife,” said Susan solemnly. “He isn’t shy, believe me,” retorted Miss Cornelia. “Absent-minded,—yes—but shy, no. And for all he is so abstracted and dreamy he has a very good opinion of himself, man-like, and when he is really awake he wouldn’t think it much of a chore to ask any woman to have him. No, the trouble is, he’s deluding himself into believing that his heart is buried, while all the time it’s beating away inside of him just like anybody else’s. He may have a notion of Rosemary West and he may not. If he has, we must make the best of it. She is a sweet girl and a fine housekeeper, and would make a good mother for those poor, neglected children. And,” concluded Miss Cornelia resignedly, “my own grandmother was an Episcopalian.” About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. L. M. Montgomery (2004). Rainbow Valley. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/5343/pg5343-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html.

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