A Page, which may contain a proposal of sorts

It may be very true that once in a while, things fall beautifully into place like perfect puzzle pieces. If we are lucky enough for these once-in-a-whiles, happiness warms all troubles away.

And troubles seemed to fall away from Ceci's mind like dust in sunlight.
All but one.


Marguerite was the first to hear all.
They sat together on a farm fence behind her house. The sun warmed Ceci's face while memory's goosebumps crept up her skin.

"I would never have believed it," Marguerite said, "had I not come upon the two of you in the hallway that night. The distress in the air was almost... visible. And poor Mr. Lennox," she gave a light laugh, "looked so distraught!"
Marguerite reached forward where she sat perched on the edge of the fence. She placed a hand on Ceci's knee. "Honestly, Cecilia. Sometimes you have such a presence... I believe you could hardly imagine what you do to people's nerves. And so you have to believe me when I tell you that your Mr. Lennox is a brave, brave man."
Ceci shook her head. Not that she distrusted her cousin's words; she was thinking of Corran and the burning house again. "I know," she said.
Ceci frowned and tried to rub away the goosebumps. She heaved a great sigh, but didn't return the smile her cousin sent her.
"So what is the dilemma?" Marguerite asked after a few moments of silence.
Ceci snapped her gaze back at Marguerite and raised an eyebrow. She suddenly felt quite cold and rubbed her arms again. "Think about it for a moment, cousin. I'm sure you'll come up with something."
Marguerite scowled at Ceci. The dilemma was of course, obvious. She had only wanted to hear Ceci explain it. "There's no need to be sardonic, Ceci. Honestly."
Ceci sighed again. "I've not yet met Sir Lennox. And Corran won't tell me directly if he's mentioned my existence to his father. That is the dilemma."
They were silent again for several minutes. In the space of that time, a mourning dove spoke off in the distance.
"Oh, hell!" Ceci suddenly exclaimed, pounding a fist into her lap. "This is exactly why I promised myself never to get involved with gentry." Then she bit her lip.
Marguerite looked slightly shocked. Slowly she descended from her seat and looked up at her cousin. She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it when a figure caught her eye.
For a moment she expected it to be Christopher, but it was not. It was, in fact, Mr. Lennox.
He traveled slowly and deliberately through the tall field grass with that familiar blue hat in his hand.
Marguerite took a step back as Corran nodded to her with a grin. He reached up to Ceci and pulled her gently down from her perch.
Marguerite wondered if he'd heard what Ceci had just finished saying. If he had, she doubted he would display such a beaming smile as now shone on his face. It would be wise to retire now, she decided. She bid them a good evening with a nod and a special look at Ceci--a warning look that told her they would discuss her disconcerting declaration at a later date. And she left them to make her way home.

"Good afternoon, Sicily," Corran said, plopping his hat down on the fence post and leaning up against the beams.
Ceci couldn't sustain a frown. "Have you adopted Pearl's pet name, then?"
Corran smiled. "I feel as though I should be allowed a name for you all my own."
"I should tell you, I have so many now I can hardly remember them all."
"I'll keep that in mind," he replied.
"And to what do I owe the honor of your presence this afternoon, Mr. Lennox?" Ceci asked, teasing him with a little curtsy.
"You won't get away with that for long," Corran said, leaning forward on his elbows. "Soon, you see, I aim to make you Mrs. Lennox. Then the joke will be on you."
Ceci straightened awkwardly. She almost stumbled, in fact. It was the first that he had ever mentioned any kind of official... attachment.
Corran noticed her stumble. He took a step toward her, reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small velvet pouch. "I haven't a ring just yet," he emptied the contents into the palm of his hand. "But it may serve, for the present."
And what an ironic moment for Ceci to turn clumsy. For about half a minute she simply stared at Corran's hand, and as she fumbled with the slippery, silky chain resting in his palm, he gave a chuckle. He leaned forward and kissed her temple. Then, carefully and expertly he fastened the delicate silver chain around her neck, just touching the little jewel with two fingers where it rested below her collarbone.
"There you are, love." he murmured. "Beautiful."
Ceci found herself tipping forward to wrap her unsteady arms round his waist and to press her face up into his shoulder. And she couldn't see it, but he lifted his head, closed his eyes and grinned, staggering back against the fence with her sudden weight pressed against him. He laid a hand on her soft head of curls and breathed deeply.

Malte

"There is an hour to go until sundown, at which time we will tie up at the quayside from where our journey began. Perhaps it will begin all over again tomorrow, perhaps none of it ever happened. What, then, is time? And who are we, returning in an altered light? Have we any way of knowing, when the bells ring for sunset and we have reached a point in the stream that we have passed before?
I just ask, Malte. You do not need to answer.



"He wound up with his own mercantile house in the city, ships in the harbor that sailed far and wide and came home from foreign parts with holds full of fan coral, narwhal tusks, and turtle shells, all of which were fashioned in his workshops into true works of art. While transforming its fruit, he still stayed true to the ocean from which his wealth derived. From walrus tusks he created creatures with long heads and slanting eyes. He claimed that the creatures knocked on the ivory from within; he was merely the man who applied the knife to let them out. It was when he acquired the nickname the Amber King that he began to expand the summerhouse into a castle.



"So it is with us. We keep our miracles close to our chest. We cannot interfere in the course of events, anyway. To everything there is a season. The living have nothing but that, and soon the story will be played out.


FROM
Prince
by Ib Michael

Blackbird

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Black bird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
all your life
you were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

-why, the Beatles, of course

Bewildered

To invent a person.
Not to create, not from nothingness.
But there, in existence,
in shadow.
Sharp edges on his face
and such a tiny light in his eyes,
but
enveloped in shadow,
faded into the crowd.
No one notices but me.
And because I noticed,
he is mine to invent.
I give him a name.
I spell it out for him.
He says his name, and suddenly
it's his.
I
can coax a smile from his lips.
His laugh
mercilessly
ridiculously clear
can be mine.
The light that plays in his eyes
that was once only a tiny light
that was once only mine to notice
suddenly...
will not leave my thoughts.

And there it is.

I thought I had invented him.
That he could be mine
through the heart I unburdened...
No.
Because now I am captured
no kidding.

Now what can I do?

The Invisible Child

"You all know, don't you, that if people are frightened very often, they sometimes become invisible," Too-ticky said and swallowed a small egg mushroom that looked like a little snowball. "Well. This Ninny was frightened the wrong way by a lady who had taken care of her without really liking her. I've met this lady, and she was horrid. Not the angry sort, you know, which would have been understandable. No, she was the icily ironical kind."
"What's 'ironical'?" Moomintroll asked.
"Well, imagine that you slip on a rotten mushroom and sit down on the basket of newly picked ones," Too-ticky said. "The natural thing for your mother would be to be angry. But no, she isn't. Instead she says, very coldly: 'I understand that's your idea of a graceful dance, but I'd thank you not to do it in people's food.' Something like that."
"How unpleasant," Moomintroll said.
"Yes, isn't it," replied Too-ticky. "This was the way this lady used to talk. She was ironic all day long every day, and finally the kid started to turn pale and fade around the edges, and less and less was seen of her. Last Friday one couldn't catch sight of her at all. The lady gave her away to me and said she really couldn't take care of relatives she couldn't even see."
"And what did you do to the lady?" My asked with bulging eyes. "Did you bash her head?"
"That's of no use with the ironic sort," Too-ticky said. "I took Ninny home with me, of course. And now I've brought her here for you to make her visible again."

From
Tales from Moominvalley
by Tove Jansson

A Word or Two long awaited

Quincy dropped the flowers one by one on the table. They were all from Marguerite's over-abundant garden, and Ceci's duty was to arrange them artistically in a tall crystal vase that sat in the middle of the table. Unfortunately, some of the flowers had been decapitated or de-petaled thanks to Quincy's absent-minded expertise, and so the arrangement appeared rather sparse. Ceci had to stifle a grin. Quincy's antics no longer annoyed her like they used to. And all in all, she appreciated his efforts, as he was a boy, and most boys would rather have swallowed a toad than agree to pick flowers for a party. She really couldn't complain.
This was the last of the flower arrangements, the last in a long process of decoration and preparation. Marguerite, lovely and flustered, would not stop moving about, straightening this and fixing that and smiling at everyone.
Early guests appeared and were ushered through the sweet smelling parlor out to the beautifully furnished lawn. The garden seemed to spill across the open grass and the soft space was carpeted by rugs and billows of fabric. A long banquet table stood beneath a canopy of red and yellow leaves, the very beginning of autumn color.
Ceci sighed as she watched Marguerite smile and greet her guests, and thought how well happiness suited her features. Mr. Brooke bustled joyfully through the doors and out onto the lawn, kissing Marguerite smartly on both cheeks. Ceci laughed heartily.
Three violinists appeared, and Ceci took charge of ushering them to a corner beneath the shady branches of the canopy.

And there appeared Christopher, looking unusually tall and beaming gloriously. The moment he spotted his Marguerite, he swept her into an unabashed kiss, wherein all the guests cried out that they should share the first dance.
And so the lawn was cleared of obstacles, and the sweet couple waltzed in so close proximity that Ceci could barely distinguish the two; they seemed to be almost one person.

Sam Redford asked Ceci for a dance, and then his cousin William. She danced with Christopher once--he felt it his duty to tear himself away from his bride-to-be for a dance with her closest friend-- and once with Mr. Brooke, who bounced along on his two left feet. A few others asked her, but she turned them down. She wanted to fade into the background and observe rather than partake; she wanted to soak in this happy, care-free celebration. After all, it was only a moment in her lifetime; she wanted to remember every detail... before things changed and she had to say goodbye.
The sky grew darker, and candles were lit all around the little party. They sparkled and flickered like warm stars and their little lights cast glowing spots on faces and hands.

Suddenly, a streak of green flew past, followed by a streak of pale blue. Ceci sat up straight.
"Why you little!" Pearl squealed, her pale curls flying behind her.
Quincy laughed wickedly as he fled her wrath.
Ceci set her wine glass on the stool by her elbow and slowly (with hands shaking) threaded her way through the growing throng of dancers on the lawn. She stepped hesitantly through the brightly-lit doorway and into the shadowy hall. It was empty; Ceci breathed a sigh and barely stopped to wonder whether she were disappointed or relieved... when a dark shadow in the corner caught her eye.

He held that familiar broad-rimmed hat in his hands, which kept moving slowly along the brim. His head was bent, staring down at the floor and his bright hair was mussed--more so than usual. And he stood against the wall, just inside the front doorway.
Ceci turned round and looked at him for a long moment. It was her intent to make him look up through the persistence of her gaze. She felt her heart beat against her ribcage like a trapped bird. It was truly torture, having memorized a hundred intelligent things to say in preparation for such a situation only to have them flung from her mind just when she needed them. She couldn't bear her own silence-- to say anything, anything--
"Mr. Lennox!" Marguerite's voice suddenly appeared from behind, and they both jumped.
"Oh, thank you for coming!" she stopped abruptly when she finally seemed to notice Ceci standing rigidly in the hall. "Won't you... both... come out into the party?"
At which point Ceci turned quickly and followed on her cousin's departing heels. Corran followed too, slowly, watching that retreating head of dark curls.


"Sicily!" Pearl cried, grabbing at Ceci's arm. "Come on and dance with me! Now they've stopped with all those boring formal dances... c'mon!" She pulled Ceci into the fray and twirled herself beneath her raised arm.
Pearl was always the fantastic one for diversions. The music's rhythm beat in Ceci's ears, for they danced close to the little orchestra (three violinists plus a reed-flutist and Sam Redford with a make-shift drum) and for a moment she didn't think of anything.
It didn't last too long, however, for Quincy stole up close to Pearl and dropped a little beetle in her hair and of course she had to go after him again. And all at once an arm suddenly pressed round Ceci's waist and drew her aside from the dancing crowd and the pounding music.
A voice close to her ear said her name. Only... coming from that voice she could barely believe the name it gave, or its frightening nearness to her.
"Ceci..."
Ceci looked up into Mr. Lennox's face. She felt her cheeks burn. The music and the dancers faded into the background.
"Could I have a word?" His voice was still an intimate whisper, but somehow strangely formal. He waited for an answer.
Ceci wondered--senselessly, for such a moment--where his hat had got to. He wasn't holding it in his hands; they were empty.
"I... I didn't know you would be here," was the only thing she could think to say.
Mr. Lennox smiled. His eyes left her face, where they had been so transfixed, and wandered. His smile slowly faded as he said, "As much as I regard your cousin and Mr. Tout, I came only with the intention of... if not speaking with you, at least seeing you."
His eyes traveled quickly back to her face, as if to gage her reaction.
An image suddenly came into Ceci's mind: Mr. Lennox-- Corran-- heaving on the ground, black with soot and blood and struggling to breathe. It was one of the left-over nightmare images from the day James Carter lost his house to a fire. She took in a sharp breath to cover the gasp that came out.
"I... I finished your book, Mr. Lennox--the one you loaned to me. It was quite good and very... very true." Ceci said.
Mr. Lennox frowned again and looked away from her. "I wish you wouldn't call me that. I thought we were friends enough to hear you say Corran... not Mr. Lennox."
"But you never gave me leave to call you Corran," Ceci replied.
"Your brother used my first name hardly a moment or two after I met him," Mr. Lennox returned.
"I'm not like Quincy. And I never knew for sure whether we were friends," Ceci said.
"Not friends?" Mr. Lennox said, surprise apparent on his face. His brow furrowed in a way Ceci could never remember seeing before.
"Well, I'll have my book back then, if we aren't friends. Strangers hardly borrow books to each other."
Ceci flinched. She couldn't tell from his face or from his voice whether he were teasing or not. But she thought not.
She took in a deep breath. "I simply don't know what to say to you. What is it you want from me?" She said.
Mr. Lennox sighed. "I'm skirting the issue quite clearly," he said. "Pearl gave you my letter?"
Ceci nodded, looking down.
"Then I'll tell you. I meant every word of it."
Ceci didn't look up. After a moment, Mr. Lennox reached out to her and grasped her hands.
"Ceci," he said, leaning closer to her. "If we can't be friends, then perhaps we might find another arrangement. Look at your cousin."
Ceci turned to gaze out at the crowd and saw Marguerite happily engulfed in Christopher's arms.
"I simply... simply cannot escape from the thought that you and I should end up that way." Corran's voice was a penetrating whisper again.
Ceci could feel his grip on her fingers tighten as though he would draw her to him. She looked back at him, and her heart fluttered unnervingly in her chest. There was that image of a gasping, choking Corran trapped in her mind. "Just promise me right now that I'll never, never, have to endure such a terror as you gave me... the day you disappeared into that burning house. I wouldn't bear it again, Corran Lennox." To her dismay, tears pricked at her eyes. They gathered into pools at the corners and before she could stop them, fell down from her lashes onto her cheeks.
Corran only smiled down at her. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek and her temple and her hair.
Out came a little sob and she leaned into his embrace. She let the tears fall freely and reached up to put her arms about his neck.
And he buried his face in her hair.

Matti and Niila in Pajala

"As early as in class six Niila's awkward relationship with girls started to become clear. It had nothing to do with his appearance, even if he was no beauty, with his typically Finnish potato of a nose, prominent cheekbones, and hair that was always greasy, no matter how often he washed it. He was lankier than I, and perhaps a bit jerky, fumbling in his movements. But he wasn't repulsive. On the contrary, he radiated a sort of energy that prowled around like a caged animal, looking for a way of escape. It would be an exaggeration to call it an inner fire, perhaps; but it was something warm and vulnerable. It rankled within him and the girls could sense it. He had will power, a root forming in his back bone."

"All the time there were other girls in the background, not my type, it's true, but there nonetheless. Girls who were adventurous. Who were willing to take risks, cling to the edge of the precipice by their fingertips, who were willing to launch themselves into the night sky. "

From
Popular Music from Vittula
by Mikael Niemi

A Page Concerning Invitations

Marguerite sat at the desk in her little room, smiling in the sunlight radiating through the window. Her hand paused over a sheet of clean, blank paper. At her elbow was a neat stack of letters, all sealed with bright red ribbon and addressed in her tiny, neat handwriting. Her cheeks were still pleasantly rosy after a kiss from Christopher, and their forthcoming nuptials filled her thoughts.
Presently, she deliberated over a certain invitation... for the stack of letters all contained invitations to her engagement party. She had just finished Ceci's, and the thought of her dear cousin reminded her of a certain Mr. Corran Lennox, whom she suspected of particular regard for Cecilia. She wondered if such an invitation would cause consternation; it was of no particular concern to her whether or not the young man attended the party. The very idea of it was due to Ceci alone.
Marguerite wished she might ask Christopher his opinion. But he had gone on errand to town (for what, he wouldn't say.)
As she sat by the window, debating the correct action in her mind, she heard a soft knock at the front door. So she put her pen down and left the room to answer it.
She opened it wide to find Ceci standing in the doorway, looking rather... unlike her usual self. Ceci stood with her arms crossed tightly to her chest, paler than usual and stony-faced.
"My dear! I was just thinking of you, and that we haven't spoken for ages. Come in from the chill!" Marguerite ushered her cousin into the parlor, where Ceci sat without a word on a vacant chair.
"I'll fetch you some tea-- you look colder than ice!" And Marguerite hastened off.
When she returned, she pressed a hot cup into her cousin's icy fingers.
Ceci sipped carefully at the liquid. The steam rose from the cup and brushed the rosiness back into her cheeks.
"What is it?" Marguerite said finally, leaning forward. She wasn't usually blunt, but she'd never seen Ceci in such a peculiar state before.
Ceci looked up at her cousin. She set the little tea cup on the table near her elbow. Then she sighed and retrieved a paper from her pocket.
Marguerite thought she saw her cousin's fingers tremble as she cradled the little slip in her hands. It was a letter, she finally realized.
"Is it... some terrible news?" Marguerite asked slowly, fright beginning to steal up her throat.
A grimace spread across Ceci's face. "No," she answered. She began to flatten the creased paper over her knee, and wouldn't look up to meet Marguerite's eyes.
"Then, heaven's sake, what?"
"Did Christopher ever write you a love letter?" Ceci asked, finally glancing up at her cousin.
Marguerite blinked in surprise. "No," she said.
"He told you that he loved you?"
"Yes," Marguerite said simply. "Is that what that paper is in your hands? A love letter?"
Ceci looked down at her lap again and nodded.
"Who is it from?" Marguerite asked, though she could easily guess.
"From Corran."
"Mr. Lennox?"
Ceci gave a quick jerk of her head.
"Well..." Marguerite wondered at her cousin. "Why are you so pale? You don't return his sentiments?"
Ceci didn't answer immediately. The long pause Marguerite understood as a negative, until Ceci said in a hoarse whisper, "I hardly know."
"Oh," was Marguerite's reply.
Ceci looked up at her with desperate pleading in her eyes. Marguerite could see a sheen of tears forming on the surface. She reached forward and clasped her cousin's cold fingers tightly in her own.
"I can't offer you any insights," she said quickly, "but you are the cleverest young woman I know... as well as the kindest. I'm confident you'll find the truth you need."
"Only... even if I find it, how am I to be sure I have the... the nerve?"
Marguerite stood up and gently pulled her cousin to her feet. She gave a little laugh.
"My very dearest Ceci! God bless you, if there's anything to doubt in you, it isn't your supply of boldness!"
Marguerite pressed Ceci into a tight hug, closing her eyes and willing her own abundance of happiness to pass to her beloved cousin.

Marguerite was left with a look of gratitude from Ceci's pale face as she stood in the doorway to watch her make her way slowly down the grassy hill behind the house. She paused there for a time, staring out into the sky and the departing sun.

When finally she returned to her desk of invitations, her hand paused once more over the blank paper. She glanced out the window again.
Then resolutely, she penned the invitation to Mr. Lennox.

The Messenger's words

Where did that Corran go?
Pearl wandered down the hall, into the library, opened the door to his study, closed the door, turned out of the library, down the hall again... where in heaven's name did he go?
His bedroom door was wide open. The open doorway practically beckoned her in. But Corran wasn't there. In fact, his room was strangely vacant. Well, all of his things were there, in scattered disarray, but it was cold and uninhabited.
As Pearl turned to exit, the sound of something slipping to the floor caught her attention. She turned. The sound was of paper--a letter had floated to the floor, where it now lay beneath the window light of a melancholy gray morning.
You know that old adage? The one concerning a cat? Well, curiosity nipped at Pearl's fingertips, and she reached down to pick up the letter.
And then, interest moved her eyes slowly over Corran's handwriting.

It was a love letter.
Pearl gloried in the notion; she held in her hands an actual love letter.
Her heart leapt excitedly in her chest; a love letter to Sicily! Oh, it was just too fascinating. It was something straight out of the romance Mother had forbidden her to read.
Slowly, a certain realization came to Pearl. As she read the letter over again, her racing mind suddenly realized that she held in her hand the answer to all of her problems. Especially the ones concerning her lovesick elder brother.
Oh, it was just too good!

And that silly brother of hers would never send this letter. It was neglected. And as Pearl looked about the room, she notice about a half-dozen unfinished copies of it.

Thus, she deduced that the task was now hers. By chance she'd come across it, fate had chosen her to act where her heartsick brother would not. The happiness of her two favorite people in all the world (besides mother and father) depended on her.
So she folded the letter carefully, sealed it (rather messily, but no matter) and delicately addressed it to Miss Sicily-- no, not Sicily! she hurriedly crossed out Sicily-- Miss Cecilia Moore.
---

It only took Pearl half an hour to find Sicily's house. She'd never been this way before; mother and father always took her a different way to town. And they would never allow her outside the Estate ground without that goose of a governess.
But Pearl, clever as she believed herself to be, evaded them all easily.

And what a small house! When compared to Lennox Estate, it was a doll's house. A lovely little doll's house with a lovely little garden and roses all round it. Wouldn't she just love to live in such a house!
But the minute she lifted a fist to knock, the door swung open with a crash and somebody tumbled right into her. She rolled backwards, off the front stoop and into the roses.
"Toads! Who're you?" a scruffy, scrawny pale boy stood up and scowled down at her.
Glowering herself, she got up out of the roses and stood to face him. "What a rude little boy you are! Where's Sicily? I have something important to give her."
"Who's Sicily?" the rude boy said, hands on hips.
"Sicily! She lives here."
And thank goodness, for Sicily appeared right down the front walkway as Pearl spoke.
"Pearl?" Sicily said, surprised.
Pearl spun around. "There you are!" she said, looking relieved and exasperated at the same time.
"That's Ceci, not Sicily, you goose!" the boy shouted from behind.
"Quincy, don't be impolite," Ceci said. She looked tired and worn-out for the ages.
"Quincy? Is that your brother?" Pearl said.
Behind her, Quincy scowled again and crossed his arms in indignation.
Ignoring the question, Ceci said, "Would you like to come in, Pearl? I'll make us some tea. Heaven knows I'll be needing some."
Pearl followed Sicily into the little doll house. Quincy glowered at her as she flounced past.

The house smelled of lavender and cinnamon and old books. But it smelled warm, too. Not like Lennox Estate, which was always cold, no matter how many flower bouquets and fireplaces filled each room.
At the little worn table, Sicily and Pearl sat, a little porcelain tea pot between them. Pearl was having a tea party in a doll's house with Sicily. It was something out of her five-year-old pretends. And the love letter that now lay nestled in her pocket made the whole event that much more fantastical.
Sicily took a long drink of her tea. When she put the cup down, she looked curiously at Pearl. "Now that we have our tea, was there something important you came for? Is everything alright?" Ceci knew perfectly well the bounds of Pearl's allowances; it wasn't likely Pearl was here with her mother's permission. So she must have come under some significant pretense.
"Yes. But I have something to give to you," Pearl carefully pulled the paper thing out of her pocket. "It's very important. Only... you mustn't read it now. Wait till I've gone home, you'll want to read it in private, by yourself."
"Oh..." Sicily said, taking the letter and staring at it strangely.
"I'm only the messenger," Pearl said. "Though... the person who wrote that doesn't know I'm giving it to you." This last confession came before Pearl could think.
Sicily raised an eyebrow. She didn't look angry or disappointed, just amused.
"You're probably anxious to read it. I'll finish my tea and go home." Pearl swallowed the contents of her cup and stood up.
Sicily followed her to the door, and stood leaning against it as Pearl headed back down the walkway. "Thank you Pearl," she called.
Pearl turned and waved.
She smiled to herself.
Things were about to begin.

Wearing my glasses, too tired to focus.

Okay, so I'm supposed to write this email to a certain person concerning some drama that happened last year, and I really really really don't want to. Notice the absence of commas in that sentence. I've been putting it off for weeks. My excuse tonight is that I feel like my brain is going to explode out of my right temple and start oozing down my forehead. Lovely imagery, right?

Wouldn't it be great if there were a button you could push to just make a part of the past go away? You know, as if it never even happened. Erase it from everyone's memories forever.
To hell with learning from your mistakes.
This one is pointless. The only thing I've learned is that you just can't argue with someone who simply won't listen. But how often do you come across such people? Heaven, I hope they're not common. Because one more time, and I'll lose it.
And I'm so tired of talking about it and hearing about it and worrying about it.
Worry eats into your mind. It consumes your thoughts, it won't let you sleep. At least, not without bad dreams. And if you're a chronic worrier like me, it gets to be a sort of disease.
I would love to learn how to be happy being happy. Even when I'm happy, I'm not happy! Isn't that crazy? When there is absolutely nothing in the way of my happiness, I can still find something to be unhappy about. Only, it's not a something; it's not tangible... it's some invisible impediment that exists without reason.


My thoughts are getting crazy. I want to be like my friend Meredythe: she has this special trick to finding her "happy place."
Wait... do I even HAVE a happy place?

It was all Yellow

A Page of Confessions: He's going to spill

Corran was sure he was a thought away from complete insanity. He paced the floor of his room, holding the letter he'd just spent four successive hours writing. Four hours was an age in his young lifetime, it seemed, especially given the current state of his nerves.
He left the parson's house so frustrated, confused and angry that he hardly knew what to do with himself. He began by running as fast as he could on the uneven ground of the meadow land towards Lennox estate, but gave that up when he almost tripped over an unsuspecting rock. He kicked the innocent rock and sent it flying. Then he ripped the hat off his head, threw it on the ground and began kicking that.
Honestly.
Any one of his acquaintances would have thought he'd gone mad.
And in all likeliness, he had.

He read over the letter in his hand for the fiftieth time.
It was a confession, but no matter how many times he wrote and rewrote, it sounded like incredibly uncanny filth.
If she read it, she would either laugh or pity him. Perhaps both. And neither were the lesser of two evils.
Corran shuddered.

"Miss Cecilia Moore:
I write this to you with a pen because I am too much of a coward to speak the words to you. I would rather be in blissful ignorance of your reaction to what I might say instead of watching that impression grow on your face as I speak.
In any case, I must tell you, now, before I go completely mad from silence.

The truth is that I love you.

I wonder if you're surprised. Or perhaps you would feign surprise to me if ever I spoke the words for your ears. Because I can't imagine how in my bumbling words and actions I could not have betrayed the truth. It is so evident in my recollections and I often curse myself a complete idiotic mess.
Men often take courage in the pen.
I find that I can too; I would write over and over of all your loveliness, as romantic etiquette allows. I would write what is in my thoughts every time I look at you. And it is all the truth, for you are complete loveliness in words, actions, appearance, character and mind. Loveliness and wit and laughter and life. What man couldn't love a woman who personifies these things?

If I am not a coward and I deserve, somehow, that you should not presently despise me, I will come and see you and hear your answer to all this. Soon.
Until them I'm tortured. I give you leave to pity me.
I said once that I would store up all your pity and use it to my advantage one day.

Yours,
C. Lennox"

A Moody, Wordful Page that Doesn't Say Much

Ceci walked slowly towards the little front door of the pastor's home. It was a small red door and it looked warm and welcoming-- as it was supposed to, Ceci knew. And yet, to her this small red door was a reminder that she must plaster a smile to her tired face and envelop her weariness in a pleasant disposition. For James' sake.
The fist of wild flowers she'd gathered drooped at her side. She'd no idea how much farther her endurance would take her; she worried that she mightn't outlast James' recovery.
She stopped at the door, heaved a cleansing sigh and crossed the threshold.

Ceci slowly climbed the stairs to his room carrying a tall water jug of the flowers. She thought she heard muffled voices from a distance and wondered for a moment if her fatigue was getting the better of her senses.
She stopped abruptly at the open door.

Corran Lennox sat in a wooden chair beside Mr. Carter's bed. He leaned towards James, as though they were engrossed in a secret conversation.

Ceci was surprised. Naturally. She'd seen neither hide nor hair of Mr. Lennox since the fire. Not that he was obligated in any way--not for all the world; saving James' life had been more than enough. Much more.

The floorboards creaked as Ceci stepped out of the doorway.
Corran immediately looked up at the sound, and Ceci had to flush and announce her presence.
"Excuse me," she said quietly, offering the water jug as explanation of her appearance.
For some odd, unexplainable reason, she could not quite meet Corran's eye.
As she crossed the room to place the flowers on the nightstand, James suddenly reached out and grasped Ceci's wrist. Startled, she turned to him.
"Thank you," James whispered to her.
Finally Ceci's gaze fell on Corran, who looked stone-cold and expressionless. And pale.
She nodded and smiled in response to James and made to leave.

At the bottom of the stairs she paused. The whispered conversation had not resumed and for a disquieting moment, Ceci suspected Corran might follow her.
She slipped out the back door and out into the kitchen garden.

Something strange had happened there in that room.
She had known for quite some time--as much time as she had for personal reflection--that the fire had changed many things. Things related to Corran. Er-- Mr. Lennox.
Why did she have trouble meeting his gaze? And why did he look so frightfully cold? There was a dark, painful feeling in Ceci's chest.
She sat down on an overturned pot beneath a scrubby apple tree. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. Then in back-aching weary and dejection, her head fell forward and her long hair shook with a sob that shuddered through her body. She could keep her countenance no longer today, and she collapsed into convulsing tears, hugging her arms to herself.

When she'd finished, she slowly sat up; it was painful. Her hair clung to her wet face. She brushed it away and wiped at her cheeks.

There was Corran standing by the back doorway; he was leaning against the door frame, watching her. But when she looked up at him, he turned away, as though he could pretend she couldn't see him and he hadn't actually seen her cry.

What did she expect? That he might rush to her and take her up in his arms to comfort her?
She wanted at least a kind word; she wanted him to assure her of her own strength.
But he only stood there at the door.
Slowly, he turned his head and dared to look at her again.
Ceci stood. And what she said next she did not mean as harsh. "Is there something you wanted?" It sounded horribly cold. But wasn't that just how Corran was now?

He looked unnerved at her words. Minutes passed before his response came. "No," he finally answered.
Ceci heaved a sigh. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lennox. I-- I didn't mean for you to see me in such a state. And I am sorry if I was rude."
"Not at all," Corran replied.
She walked towards him and the door. "Thank you for coming to visit James. He doesn't have many visitors, but I'm sure it lifts his spirits to see you."
Thank you for saving his life, she thought, and thank you for living through it.
"I had heard his condition was much worse. I'm glad to see that he seems to be recovering well. No doubt, thanks to your care."
These last words were spoken with such gentleness that Ceci looked up quickly into his face.
There were no smiles. None.
No laughter, no easiness; Ceci's heart was so heavy she wondered how it could be suspended so weightlessly in her chest.

Corran reached the front door. He stopped, holding it open so that the wildly brilliant sunlight illuminated his hair in a fiery halo. Ceci wondered if he were waiting for her to say something. So she said, "Good bye, Mr. Lennox."
He seemed to start at her words. He gazed at her for a few long moments then heaved a giant sigh, turned and was gone.
Through the window, Ceci watched him retreat down the stony path, shoving his blue hat down on his head in a frustrated gesture.

The sunlight suddenly retreated behind a cloud; everything became gray and shadowy, sorry shades of once burnished fall colors.

Who would want to paint a dead rabbit?

Life and time... and seconds and minutes and hours
Days and months and years.
Ages. Generations.
Ancestors and Descendants.
Lineage.
Marking time.
Making time.
Living the time you've got
Instead of wondering about tomorrow.

But I am not self-righteous.
I do not pretend to know how
Or live without wasting time.
I am just the same as you.
I try
and sometimes I fail.
I fail more than I succeed.
But when I succeed
I am happy.
And sometimes I am happy when I fail
Even.
(But only sometimes.)
Because sometimes it is not so bad to fail
I think.
Sometimes.
At least I tried.

Try, try, try.
Life is trying—
All the time.
Life and time.
And trying.

Even more words on a page

Corran wasn't allowed to ride.
He spent two weeks in bed and was allotted a strict amount of time out-of-doors, for fresh air.
But his doctors did not understand that he needed to be outside. The fresh air was more vital than warmth and rest and medicine. He needed sunlight. He needed wind and cold air to clean out his lungs. And his doctors would be horrified by such a statement.

He knew what he needed. Even if he didn't want to admit it, even if he couldn't have it.
Couldn't have her.

And he was so tired. He was tired of the stuffy rooms and the stifling heat of the bedclothes. He was even tired of the books in his library.
He was tired of thinking. He was tired of dreaming.
Because it was the same dream each and every night. And as much as his heart leapt at the lingering image of her when he awoke from his dream, it reminded him of just how far away she was. Not in physical distance, mind you--farther away in mind and spirit. He knew she couldn't be thinking of him--not with a dying man to care for.
Would she ever come to visit again?
Would it matter? Does she care enough to wonder how I am? Or did she only come for the books in the library and for Pearl? He would wallow in self-pity and imagine how much more she could love his sister than she could ever love him. Self-pity was a new feeling to him and it became so habitual that he never wanted to feel anything else.
Anything else took too much energy.

More Words on a Page

There was something wrong with her brother.
Pearl knew. She noticed everything, even the things they tried to hide from her.
For her own good, they said.
This was something else, though.
And it wasn't just his injuries, either. It was definitely more than that, it was something inside of him.
Pearl didn't know what is was. She just knew... that it was.
And she was sensible enough not to ask him straight out as she usually did.

Before the fire, Pearl used to tease her brother about his lady friend, Sicily. She sincerely liked Sicily, which was the reason she felt so free to tease. And besides that, in her own little-sister way, it was a method to get him back for all the time he spent teasing her--not that she really minded it; she was a good sport. But all the same, there was something, something that told her--indirectly--that her brother was in love.
With Sicily.
She teased him mostly for the fact that he always called her "Miss Moore." Pearl thought that was silly; they were all good friends now, weren't they?

But things changed.
They had changed--after that horrible fire.
But it was more than the fire itself. Corran had changed. And it bothered Pearl.

After Theo had left and gone into the army--and as yet they'd received no correspondence from him--after that, she and her brother had become closer. Maybe it was through Sicily. But they used to talk about--everything and anything together.
Now they never talked.
At dinner Corran was silent--that is, when he came to dinner. And they never had their tea together anymore.
Things had changed.
Pearl kept one eye and one ear open in order to discover--observe--anything that could help her understand what was going on, what was wrong.
That is, one eye and one ear when they weren't both glued to her schooling; her governess was a no-nonsense woman and rarely allowed time for observation.
Reading and writing and art. She hated mathematics. And Corran used to take her out at night to look at the stars--but that never happened anymore.
"You brother was injured--he is an invalid. Give him time to recover, Pearl," her governess told her.
Give him time.
If it were up to him, Pearl thought, he'd take all the time in the world and I'll be eighty when he finally decides to STOP being an invalid.

And Pearl hated trying to be patient. It took too much energy.

Words on a page (or I really need to find a better title for this...)

No one thought James Carter would survive long after the flames devoured his house and his livelihood. Cecilia knew quite well what everyone thought. And yet her days that followed the terrible incident were spent by the man's side, constantly leaning over his body as he lay still and bedridden. The bed belonged to the parson, who dutifully took in the homeless and the tragedy-stricken. James Carter was immediately examined by the apothecary, and Ceci herself arranged a room for him as soon as she heard the doctor's diagnosis: it was grave, but not fatal.

The way she doted over the poor man, everyone was sure she had promised herself to him and that they were engaged. Why else would she remain his constant nurse, vigilantly tending to his every need? But in truth she had not promised him anything. It was her relentless compassion that drove her to care for Mr. Carter. Compassion... tinged with a guilt she did not understand. It was through no fault of her own that his home and his work was destroyed.
It might have been the fact that James Carter, a helpless invalid, had begun to slowly hate her. For all his adult life he had doted on her, loved her from afar, made secret dreamy plans to bring her home as his wife. Those dreams went up in flames along with his house, his land and all his possessions, including the hearty sum he'd hidden away beneath the floorboards. It was all gone. And there she sat, day in and day out, spoon-feeding him like a little child, washing his sheets and helping the parson's wife change his clothes, to his utter shame and embarrassment. For the first time as an adult, he was dependent, completely helpless. And dependent on whom? The very woman he had always worked and desired to provide for, that she might depend on him, look up to him, love him. And now he knew with desperate certainty that that design was undone. He began to abhor her very presence, which was his daily reminder of this horrible truth.
But... could he not see her eyes as she tirelessly sat by his bedside? He missed the love in her look as she patiently cared for him. Her face glowed with life and compassion when she washed his face or brushed his hair. He did not understand any of this and was instead lost in his own misery. Day by day he grew more desperate and soon Ceci realized she must make an effort to ensure he didn't do any harm to himself.

It should be plain and clear by now that James Carter would never make any sort of husband for Cecilia. By "any sort" I mean to say that we all, without fail, hope and wish and dream for that someone who understands us and--very simply--completes us.
And though the more cynical among us love to assert the unrealistic sentimentality of this desire, still all the same it exists and the honest ones admit it.

In this story, for the good of our heroine (and subsequent hero...) she does not marry Mr. Carter, farmer by profession. However, Ceci leaves, in time, an indelible mark on his memory that he only understands in his old age... as gratitude.
Good for him.

The Experiment

Words on a page

Quincy was experiencing a state of boredom.
Unfortunately, boredom in relation to Quincy meant trouble.
Today the sun was out, the day was warm, the sky was an incredible shade of October blue. And yet, Quincy was completely devoid of interesting things to do.
If you've ever had the pleasure of understanding the behavioral characteristics of 11 year-old boys, you may know how quickly they find trouble--or trouble finds them. On this day, all Quincy had to do was get it into his head to go exploring.
This led him through the pastures behind his home, out into the open countryside.
Leaping over pasture fences and running swiftly through the tall meadow-grass, Quincy imagined he was riding a horse; an enormous dark-gray stallion just like the one his sister's friend Corran rode. Xerxes was a fantastic name for such a fantastic horse; he envied Corran, that man with the orange hair. Ceci always chided him for calling Corran by his first name. However, Quincy thought it perfectly normal; they both were young men coming into large inheritances, had much in common, and might as well start it off on a first-name basis.
Such was Quincy's reasoning and it sounded perfectly valid in his own mind.

Quincy was lost in his own imaginings and did not realize where he was for quite some time, and by then the sun had sunk much closer to the western horizon. Quincy gazed up at the glow of the sunset. It suddenly came to his attention that a low gray haze was growing in his periphery. It looked like the sun was singeing the tops of the trees.
Quincy jumped as a bright lick of flame fluttered suddenly above the far-away tree-tops. Without a second thought, he began racing towards the spot. A flame so high could not simply belong to a farmer's bonfire. Something was most definitely wrong.
As his heart beat wildly against his chest, Quincy wished his legs were longer so that his stride might stretch a greater distance. It seemed like ages before Quincy reached the sight of the flames. A sight it was, and Quincy's heart leaped in panic. He knew the small farmhouse that was now quickly becoming consumed in flames: it was James Carter's house. He flew like the wind, back the way he'd come, back toward home. Despite his somewhat scatterbrained, self-centered nature, he knew he could not put out the fire on his own. He was also aware of the fact that the closest homestead was across the farm land he was currently crossing, and that would be his home.
He reached the house within minutes, though it seemed like hours, and completely out of breath, he waved his arms frantically as he continued straight through.
"Fire! Fi-ER!" he hollered.
No one seemed present, for no one answered.
He ran back out the door and was nearly trampled by a great gray horse.
Mr. Lennox was coming up the lane. He stopped abruptly as Quincy rushed past.
"Fire!" Quincy screamed.
Corran looked startled for a moment. "Where?" he asked quickly, looking up at the house.
Quincy gasped for air. "James... Carter..." he breathed.
Without another word, Corran scooped Quincy up by the shoulders and dropped him on his horse's back. "Hold on tightly!" Corran ordered. He set off at a gallop.
Quincy nearly tumbled off backwards as the horse lurched into stride. He grasped at Corran's jacket and held on for dear life. He managed to peer back a moment and just glimpsed his sister Ceci running round the back of the house. When she saw the two of them racing down the lane, she dropped the handful of wildflowers, picked up her skirts and began to follow in a skipping run. She tried to call out to them, but the wind was rushing past Quincy's ears and the thud of the horse's hooves meeting the earth drowned out all other sound.
They reached the burning house almost instantly. Quincy's heart raced as wood and brick tumbled away from the half-consumed structure.
Corran fairly tossed Quincy off his mount, jumping easily down. Before Quincy could stand again, Corran was already through the dark entrance that was once a front doorway. Seconds passed and Quincy knew there could be no chance of extinguishing the flame until it had burnt away.
Of a sudden, Ceci was at his side, breathless. She was screaming and tears were streaming down her red cheeks. She shrieked at him, "Where's Corran?" And Quincy could only point at that dark entrance. Before either of them could do or say anything else, there was a horrifying groan and squeal, and the roof collapsed.
Quincy thought his lungs would burst or his heart would give out as his sister let out a cry of anguish.
There was a strange silence following the crash of splintered wood and crushed brick; in that silence, something emerged from the yawning shadow of a doorway. A bent figure stumbled and dragged a lifeless bulk out into the open air.
Before Quincy could react or even understand what was happening, Ceci was with the two dark figures, bent over both. She was both weeping convulsively and attempting to examine the lifeless bulk. The other figure collapsed, coughing a wheezing cough and shuddering on the ground.
Quincy found that his feet were finally moving, of their own volition, it seemed. The collapsed figure was indeed Corran. He was struggling to breathe. He was also blackened and bleeding around the arms and legs. A gash seeped on his forehead, trickling into his dirty red hair. Ceci was bent over the still, silent figure. Quincy realized the man was dead; he was not chocking and heaving like Corran; he wasn't moving at all.

And then, in an incredible moment, the still body suddenly convulsed; his chest flew upward as though his heart or his lungs were about to leap from his ribcage. Ceci gave a cry of astonishment. The man began to breathe and choke. James Carter was alive.

Words on a page

It was a terrible idea to visit the Lennox estate. Now Ceci wanted to visit everyday, and constantly searched for excuses to go. She wanted to walk the halls and corridors, examine the pictures on the walls, the books in the library. She wanted to read every book in that ridiculously enormous library. She wanted to sit in Corran's study and inspect every object he had touched. She wanted to sit in the window and stare out at the beautiful courtyard; explore every hillock, meadow, pasture and wood of the land. She wanted to sit beneath the shadow of that fantastic castle of a house and stare up at the clouds in its windows.

Corran let her shuffle back and forth, up and down the isles of bookshelves to her heart's desire. He didn't criticize as she bent over on her hands and knees to read the spines of books on the bottom shelves. "Oftentimes you find the best books buried at the bottom. I believe that's so because you have to work harder to find them."
Corran smiled down at her, hands clasped behind his back, the very picture of a gentlemanly host.
He didn't say a word even when she climbed to the top of the library ladder to exam the books at the very top. (He only looked away modestly when she lifted her skirts to climb unhindered.)
When she was finished, she carried a stack of books which were quickly transferred to Corran's arms at his insistence.
Upon leaving the library, Ceci and Corran turned round another corridor. This one opened out into a little circular alcove. A spiral staircase swirled beautifully up to the next floor, and a little girl sat near a curved window. The window had panes of blue glass and a small wooden easel sat in front of the little girl. She was the palest child Ceci had ever beheld; her ringlets were almost white and her skin was the color of ivory. She wore a long dress of light blue that seemed unnaturally long on a child so small. The little girl hummed to herself as she painted. As Ceci watched, she stopped a moment and gave a little jerk of her hand. A small musical sound erupted in the round room; Ceci realized she had a little harp at her elbow and had plucked one of the strings.
The girl finally realized she wasn't alone; she looked up at the two figures standing in the corridor. For an instant, astonishment sprang to her small face. She fancied some exotic lady had made a sudden appearance in her presence; Ceci's long dark ringlets, unbound, unhampered and falling down her back were fascinating.
Corran stood behind Miss Moore, hands still clasped carefully behind his back, and studied this first encounter. It was like something from a fairy story; an angel meeting a sprite.
Corran reached out and gently led Ceci to the little sprite sitting by the window, who stood up, hastily, recognition dawning on her features.
"Pearl, look who I've brought you to meet," Corran said.
"Is this her? Oh, I knew it must be," Pearl exclaimed, a brilliant smile alighting on her face.
The angel at Corran's side let her elbow fall from his grasp. "Pearl?" she said, surprised.
"Would you let me call you Cecily? Like the one in Italy?" Pearl said, suddenly clasping Miss Moore's arm.
"That's Sicily, Pearl," Corran said.
Cecil suddenly let out a laugh. It wasn't a polite laugh, or a giggle, or a chuckle like Corran's; it was a loud, wholesome laugh and it rang around the round room and up the spiral staircase.
Pearl dropped her grip from Ceci's arm, startled.
"Sicily," Ceci said, clasping a hand to her chest.
It was the most incandescent smile Corran had ever seen on a woman's face.
Pearl wasn't sure whether she should humor this crazy lady or run away.
"Pearl is a beautiful name," Ceci said, "And I adore Sicily," she stopped to giggle. "Do please call me Sicily."
"Al... right," Pearl replied.
She looked up at her brother, who's face displayed an almost foolish aspect of pleasure.

Let me be

They say a girl like me should wed,
And take a man to lay in my bed
But I would like to stay young and free,
And oh, I wish they would let me be
Oh, I wish they would let me be...
Let me be.

Robin the miller he's fond of brass,
He sees a fool's face when he looks in glass,
Thinks he'll bargain like grain for me
But oh, I wish he would let me be
Oh, I wish he would let me be,
Robin, let me be.

There came a man names Bonnie Jim
He looks so fine in his holiday trim
Thinks he'll take me off to the sea,
But oh, I wish he would let me be
Oh, I wish he would let me be,
Jim, let me be,
Jim, let me be.

Cousin Dick he has gold and land,
He thinks all this will win my hand
My hand or lips he will never see
But oh, I wish he would let me be
Oh, I wish he would let me be,
Dick, let me be.

This young soldier boy is Ned
His gun's like his own, he can shoot me dead,
His eyes are blue but they don't see me,
Oh, why does he let me be?
Oh, why does he let me be?
Let me be,
Why, let me be?

Kate Rusby

Even more words on a page

"My brother, Theodore, has recently joined a Northern military outfit. That is to say, in plain English, that he's joined the bloody army. Please believe me that when I say it simply I do not mean to insult your intelligence, which I regard to the highest degree, only that I feel very near the end of my rope, at my wit's end, however you may have it.
That feels very odd to write in a letter; almost as though I'm having a one-sided conversation, even though I try to imagine your thoughts as I write.
In any case, you will be the first to hear the startling news. It will be the word in every household, no doubt, that has heard of the Lennox family. I believe you know I don't mean this pompously; only that secrets are never secrets for long when people so love to gossip. You don't; perhaps you pity me. That's good, for I need all the pity I can gather up. I'll store it away and perhaps use it to my advantage one day.
I apologize for the nonsense. I will simply blame it on my longing to speak with a rational, honest, kind-hearted human being again. By this I mean you must come visit me, or give me leave (sooner rather than later) to visit you at your convenience.

Always Sincerely,
Corran Lennox"

Ceci smiled down at the small spiked handwriting. It was silly to be writing letters when they lived only three or four miles apart; still, it was something she had easily learned to enjoy. She rarely received letters of any importance, and even more rarely letters she enjoyed reading. She turned the creased paper around to read,

"Post Script: It is also my pleasure to inform you that I've recently discovered a novel I hope you will greatly appreciate. Do come and borrow it at your convenience. -C.L."

Could she deny herself the pleasure of visiting the mysterious Lennox estate? She tried to deny that such a visit would give her any pleasure. It most certainly would, she knew deep down. And why had she not yet attempted the visit? There was no explanation that sounded at all coherent in Ceci's head. She wished to, but was at the same time afraid. Afraid of what? Who knew? She didn't; she couldn't put her finger on it, wouldn't give the source a name.
Rarely did Ceci ever deliberate over something she wanted. Usually, she took the time in hand to enjoy and didn't think twice. Only recently had she begun to care what people thought of her actions.

The next morning, Mrs. Eleanor Moore strode quietly down the hall past Ceci's open bedroom. "Cecily, Cecilia dear," Mrs. Moore called. (She could never decide if she'd meant to name her daughter Cecilia or simply Cecily and thus called her both.)
Ceci looked up from her seat at the window.
"Frances wants a companion into town. She must go for a new bonnet for church."
Frances called loudly and sourly from down the hall, "No, I don't!"
Mrs. Moore turned to correct her daughter, "yes, my dear, you do."
She turned back to Ceci, but before she could continue, Ceci jumped up from her seat. "I'd be quite happy to walk with Frances, Mama."
Mrs. Moore smiled and turned smartly to continue her journey down the hall.
"Fudge." Frances said as she brushed past Cecil's door.

Heavens! Ceci thought, gazing up at them and throwing her arms wide in gratitude. It was an excuse, though a very far-fetched one, to visit Mr. Lennox at his estate. It was good enough, at least, to convince her crossed and confused feelings on the subject. The estate, she knew, was out of the way from town, but she chose to ignore the fact.
Frances scowled down at her muddy boots. This never bothered Ceci; Frances was rarely seen without a scowl these days.
Frances now looked over at her sister and raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?" she demanded.
"Thanking God," Ceci replied. It sounded like a child's Sunday school reply, but the simplicity of it pleased her.
Frances knew better than to scowl at this, so she simply turned back down to her boots and tried to keep stride with her sister, who was practically trotting.

The sisters parted at an impasse; Ceci traveled over the fences and fields toward the wide open country of Lennox land to its center Estate. Frances didn't bother to wonder where her sister was going; she was always tromping off to odd destinations. Frances simply continued down the muddy road to town; she was more than happy to continue alone.

The land was beautiful. It was rich, green and golden; the shadows fell perfectly with the late afternoon sun and wind stirred the farm pastures in such a way that delighted Ceci. The manor, when she finally caught a first glimpse of it, sent a chill down her spine and along her arms. It was enormously grand, formed completely from dark gray stone and dark red brick. The tall windows seemed to shimmer as they reflected the blue sky. It was very square, and two straight marble pillars framed the doors. Ceci approached them slowly, her mind racing absurdly for some reason to retreat; the grandeur of it all startled her.
She managed to raise a hand to the knocker, but before it made a sound, both doors swung open, and a tall man in deep blue livery gazed down at her. In the same moment, the man was ushered aside, and Corran Lennox replaced him in the doorway.
"Miss Moore," he cried, a steady, ecstatic smile on his face and in his eyes. That was greeting enough.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Lennox. I hope this isn't an inconvenient time?" Ceci replied quietly.
"Oh no. It's a lovely time. I'm so glad you decided to come," he reached out and grasped her hand.
"Thank you for inviting me," she replied, allowing a smile.
Corran led her to the library, commenting on aspects of the manor as they passed.
Ceci stopped at a painting that hung in the tiled hall.
Realizing her following footsteps had stopped, Corran turned and joined her at the painting.
"That is beautiful," Ceci said, as though stating a fact.
It was, in fact, a portrait of Corran's mother. The woman in the painting gazed out of a large window, so that her face was in profile, even as the window reflected her full features. She wore a bold shade of green, and her long dark red hair fell in ripples down her back. Beyond her, the window showed a sky of rusty sunset colors. It was a striking portrait.
"Yes," Corran breathed, his gaze intent on Ceci, who earnestly examined the portrait. She was incredible, he decided, this young lady who stood beside him.
After a long moment or two, they turned back toward the library. Corran fetched his special book for Ceci, who grinned delightedly as she read the spine.
"Careful," Corran told her, "It's a romance, and the heroine is almost too much like you."

More words on a page

"Teddy, I'm trying to find this book, The Natural World. Would you help me? I can't seem to find--"
"No, Pearl!" Theodore Lennox thundered down the hall, pushing aside his little sister. His face was the color and consistency of hot coals, and probably just as dangerous. His mind was focused on one problem, one unbelievable, inconceivable, completely ludicrous problem, and he was driven to find the source of it. He slammed his way through the library to his brother's study.
Pearl remained standing aside where Theo left her, pale shock frozen on her face. Her eyes were so wide with fright they looked as if made of glass.
Corran looked up, surprised, as Theodore smashed his way through the door. He had been engrossed in a novel he recently discovered buried in a dusty corner of the library; penned by a Henrietta P. Glosier of New England. Now he dropped the book and stared up into his elder brother's fuming red face.
Theodore raised a shaking finger and stabbed it at Corran. "Y-you--" He spat out. He struggled to swallow.
"Theo," Corran began, realizing slowly, and with growing horror, what this anger pertained to.
"Shut up!" Theodore roared. Every muscle in his body quivered visibly with his fury. Unexpectedly, he fell to his knees, shaking the small bits of furniture and book shelves. His head fell down against his chest as though his neck could no longer bear the weight and his arms fell limp to his sides.
"Theo, in God's name, please," Corran stood slowly and made to approach him.
"Don't," Theodore whispered, "even come near me."
Corran couldn't fathom how he was in this position. He assumed his father had approached his eldest son with the disturbing news weeks ago. It was quite apparent now that it hadn't happened. For the first time in his life, Corran cursed his father's actions. That Sir Edward hadn't informed Theodore of his disinheritance in favor of the younger Lennox was like a death sentence to their brotherhood.
Dear God, help me, Corran whispered, almost inaudibly.
Theodore slowly raised his head and Corran saw with a pain to his chest the despair on his brother's face.
"So, that's it," Theodore said, still in that horrid rasp of a whisper, "I'm finished. There's nothing left! How--" his eyes widened in a mad stare, "could you finish me off like this?"
Corran stood quite still.
He had no idea what words he should say, how he could proceed. He was aware, with a new and nasty reminder like a shock to his nerves, what this meant to Theo's future. With no inheritance to speak of, he was practically disowned from the family name. He had virtually nothing beside his father's and younger brother's good will.
Theo stood up. "I suppose you'll say I brought this on myself? My bad habits, my vices, I did this. It's father's last stand against me, isn't it?"
Corran remained still and silent. He was clenching is jaw so tightly he thought it might shatter.
Theodore gazed at his brother for another instant, then turned and swiftly left the room. Corran could hear his heavy footsteps down the tiled hall.

A moment later, Pearl stood in the doorway Theo had just vacated. She clutched a small green book to her chest. To Corran, she looked like a ghost of a thing, her round, pale face blending into her pale hair which fell limply against her pale dress. Her eyes looked wild with confusion and alarm. She was at that moment, the very picture of a pearl; only not the poetic version she was named for. Corran was reminded suddenly of part of a Gnostic text he'd once read, The Hymn of the Pearl:

"When, a quite little child, I was dwelling
In the House of my Father’s Kingdom,
And in the wealth and the glories
Of my Up-bringers I was delighting,
From the East, our Home, my Parents
Forth-sent me with journey-provision.
Indeed from the wealth of our Treasure,
They bound up for me a load.
Large was it, yet was it so light
That all alone I could bear it.
Gold from the Land of Beth-Ellaya,
Silver from Gazak the Great,
Chalcedonies of India,
Iris-hued Opals from Kãshan.
They girt me with Adamant also
That hath power to cut even iron.
My Glorious Robe they took off me
Which in their love they had wrought me,
And my Purple Mantle also
Which was woven to match with my stature.
And with me They made a compact;
In my heart wrote it, not to forget it:
'If thou goest down into Egypt,
And thence thou bring’st the one Pearl --
'The Pearl that lies in the Sea,
Hard by the loud-breathing Serpent --
'Then shalt Thou put on thy Robe
And thy Mantle that goeth upon it,
'And with thy Brother, Our Second,
Shalt thou be Heir in our Kingdom.'"

Words on a page

Ceci sat in her little garden, contemplating. She wanted to go and visit her cousin Marguerite, but was afraid of getting in the way; Marguerite was slowly becoming accustomed to the idea of being engaged, and Ceci felt it the best thing to let that blossom on its own. Also, she didn't want to accidentally come across Marguerite and Christopher in a private moment. All this left her with a strange feeling of awkward loneliness.

Of a sudden, the sound of heavy hoof beats came to her from the lane. She hurriedly stood up to see that it was Mr. Lennox on his great gray horse traveling at a slow walk down the lane past the Moore's farm. Cecil's instinct was to bid him good morning, a she always did when a friend passed by. Still, she hesitated, that awkward feeling she was so unaccustomed to still lingering.

However, the movement as she rose caught Mr. Lennox's eye and he turned and saw her.
Standing so perfectly still in the garden, flower faces nodding around her legs and a curious look of diffidence on her fair features, Corran Lennox paused longer than he meant.
Covering up his embarrassment for staring, he raised his broad-rimmed blue hat from his head, revealing a tousled head of dark red hair. Ceci couldn't help but grin a little at his comical appearance. Hesitant, she raised a hand in greeting.
"Good morning, Miss Moore!" Corran called, waving his hat a little. His horse, Xerxes, halfheartedly consented to turn round again, towards the pale girl without a bonnet over her curly head. "How's the day?" he continued, dismounting easily from the great horse's back.
"Good morning, Mr. Lennox. It is a perfect morning! How was the ride?" Ceci stepped out of the garden, to meet him at the gate. She leaned forward to rest her arms against the hinges.
"It's been a good, though uneventful ride," Corran replied, "Until now. What a lovely garden." He wasn't looking at the garden at all, but admiring Miss Moore's unbound, windswept dark hair.
"Yes. It's my garden, though I suppose I can't take credit for the flowers; they grow and bloom with hardly a hand from me. They are quite lovely though." Ceci finished with a sigh.
Corran smiled. His horse snuffled behind him, clearly anxious to be moving again. But then, he was always restless.
"Miss Moore," Corran said, "Xerxes and I were on our--er, roundabout--way to town. Would you care for a walk? Perhaps you'd like to join us?" (Corran wondered at his boldness. He almost never appealed for a woman's company; he usually lacked the confidence.)
To his hidden delight, however, Ceci gave a little laugh and said, "Mr. Lennox, you're my savior. I'd love a walk!" She lifted the gate latch and passed through. As she looked up at him, she realized what the odd look on Corran Lennox's face referred to. She hastily continued, "Oh, I just meant... well, I'd been sitting there so long, quite without any amusement or friends to see. You've saved me from a tedious afternoon, Mr. Lennox." She smiled up at his broad, bright eyes beneath tousled red hair.

After their difficult first meeting and the painful circumstance that ended it, Ceci found, to her surprise, she could walk beside Mr. Lennox and talk easily. She wished that she could do it indifferently, as well, but found herself listening intently for his replies. She admired his carefree stride, careful answers and soft chuckle when she was lucky enough to make him laugh. She also appreciated how he wore his clothes simple and worn instead of stiff, starched and polished, as she expected of a man worth thousands. They were uncommonly bright, though, just like his hair.

They spoke mostly of literature, and Ceci fought the envy she felt as he spoke of his library. She relied almost entirely on the tiny book shops in town. Without thinking, she said so, regretting it instantly, for it sounded so pitiable spoken aloud.
"You know, you may come visit our library and borrow as many books as you wish-- at any time convenient." Corran replied.
"Oh..." Ceci bit her lip, imagining shelves upon shelves of books she could read without depleting her small fund. "That's very kind of you," she said.
He began to tell her of the books she must read.
"Do you have any books that were written by women?" Ceci asked.
Corran seemed a bit surprised. "Women authors?" he looked down a moment. "Well, I came across a novel written by a Countess, but I believe most I've found were probably penned under a male pseudonym." He turned to Ceci, who only nodded. "You can always come and peruse yourself," he offered. He was almost afraid he'd offended her-- once again.
She turned to give him a half-smile, "yes, thank you."

Coming down the lane into town, women's eyes turned suddenly in Ceci's direction, and she was reminded that she was accompanied by the richest young bachelor in the county. She dared a glance at Corran's face, to see he had shoved his blue hat so far down that the broad rim hid the better half of his face. Underneath, his expression showed his embarrassment. Ceci laughed. Loudly, in fact. She couldn't help it, after all he looked so ridiculous.
Corran, surprised, looked up from beneath the brim.
Ceci laughed again, the sound ringing down the lane, past the shops and milling people. If Mr. Lennox was embarrassed before, he was bewildered with it now.
"Do take the hat off, Mr. Lennox. Everyone knows it's you! Or are you afraid their gaze will bore holes into your skin?" She grinned, daring to reach up and lift the brim a little to see up into his face.
"Besides," she added, as he pulled off the blue hat, "We all admire your hair so much; you can't hide with hair that shade!" She laughed again.
Corran turned his gaze to her again, smiling now. "Only you would say such things," he replied.
"Why?" she smirked back, "I suppose I'm the only one brash enough to tell the truth."
She suddenly noticed the glare of half-a-dozen posh and proper young women in tight bonnets. She sobered and began to regret her laughter.
"I... I'm sorry if I was rude," she said, wishing she had a bonnet to cover her unruly head.
Corran looked surprised again. "Why? Really, you're quite right. Miss Moore," he said, bending down to speak near her ear, "if it's so absurd to hide my identity by wearing this ridiculous hat, you must stop wishing you had one to cover up your honesty." His eyes glanced up at the gazes fired at them.
Ceci smiled nervously. It was troubling how easily Mr. Lennox read her thoughts.

Abandoning Xerxes to the company of other tethered horses, they stepped into a little shop. It sat in the corner, quite modest and unadorned compared with the fancy wares displayed in the other shops' windows.
Ceci was drawn to a little porcelain figurine placed near a small display table. Corran noticed the little figurine and was instantly reminded of her; the little female figure curved into swirls and waves like water where her hair and dress fell. It was an exquisite little thing. Ceci admired it only for a moment after glancing at the price. As she continued to search the little store, Corran caught the little figurine up and bought it from the shopkeeper; as improper as it would be, he would give it to her-- it was so much like her, it practically belonged to her in the first place.
As they passed out of the shop, however, a voice called out to Ceci. She turned, slowly, anticipating the source of the sound.
Corran caught the unnerved expression on her face before she forced a smile to her lips.
"Why, Mr. Carter!" she replied, overly loud.
The man was positively beaming. He was a large man, not terribly tall but very broad. His skin was tanned the shade of a farmer. He put out his hand to shake Corran's. "Mr. Lennox," he said, nodding.
Corran shook his hand, disquieted by the way he gazed at Miss Moore. The two could not have made the situation clearer; the poor man, James Carter, was desperately in love with Ceci Moore, and she was, by degrees, intent on having nothing to do with him. Everything became suddenly and almost unbearably uncomfortable. Mr. Carter insisted on accompanying Ceci home. She glanced quickly at Corran, who saw, for just an instant, a pleading look in her eye. But she said evenly, "How kind of you, Mr. Carter." Then she turned stiffly to Corran and said, "And thank you, Mr. Lennox, for the walk. It was... very nice."
If he hadn't felt so guilty in leaving her with the man, Corran might have chuckled at the phrase. "Very nice" were words that stiff, simple, timid women used to describe things. They were not words he felt belonged to the vocabulary of Miss Moore.
Slowly and regretfully, he mounted Xerxes, setting the little porcelain present in his pocket as he set off home.

Light

They were born from the clearest, brightest, warmest light. The purest of light. Each tiny, individual light broke and traveled away from the beautiful expanse of light from which they came, and each little light belonged always to that great expanse, the boundlessness that meant Love and Life to each one. As they floated apart, each tiny speck slowly became aware of an abyss of darkness beneath which seemed to loom closer all the time, threatening to engulf and extinguish. Each moment of their existence, the little lights felt the atmosphere swallowed slowly by this darkness, as if it were casting a shadow over their tiny beings. Caught between this growing shadow and their longing for freedom, the little lights simply bumped and bounced along, static and yet always moving. They feared the darkness, but were too dim to realize that though the abyss hung below, the expanse of light shone brighter above; they looked down instead of up. But hope was there; the light was never swallowed by the darkness. The darkness shrank far from the light and once in a while a little speck would make its way slowly back to that expanse. Each one belonged to that beautiful light, always apart of it and always called back to its belonging.

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Marguerite was very distressed.
It was just yesterday that she accepted Christopher Tout's marriage proposal, and she was very distressed. Ceci laughed heartily at her poor cousin's countenance as she crossed the room to the window where Marguerite sat.
"Underneath it all," Ceci said, beaming down at her, "I know you're in a state of absolute ecstasy."
Marguerite lifted her furrowed, worried face towards her cousin. "You're quite right," she said. To Ceci, the bright, joyful glow in Marguerite's eyes betrayed her delight. She knew her cousin well enough to recognize the way in which she hid her joy. She also understood, though not completely, the overwhelming enormity this engagement promised; how it meant to completely change dear Marguerite's life and shape her future. "Ceci," Marguerite said quietly, gazing listlessly down at her hands folded in her lap, "I can't concentrate on any one thought! What am I to do now?"
"Hmmm," Ceci hummed, reaching out for Marguerite's hands. She helped her cousin to her feet and wrapped her arm about her own. "First, you and I will go downstairs and see what your father has to say about the business. I expect your Mr. Tout has spoken to uncle?"
"Oh, yes, my... Christopher called early this morning," Marguerite replied.
"Hmmm," Ceci hummed again. She carefully guided her unsteady cousin down the stairs to the doors of her uncle's study. She rapped smartly on the thick door.
Of a sudden, Christopher Tout burst forth, missing Marguerite's shoulder but hitting Ceci's toe.
Ceci bit her lip to keep from yelping. When she looked up to Christopher's face, she started. She'd never seen a face so transfigured. He looked like a saint, his face was so aglow. And when his dark eyes fell on Marguerite, they very nearly glimmered with delight. Ceci released her cousin's arm, for Marguerite's face was fixed on his. He grasped her hands and pressed them to his chest. As he began to lift her fingers to his lips, Ceci stepped back around the corner into the hall, out of sight. As she turned in retreat, she just heard Christopher whisper, "He's given his consent."
Ceci abandoned her cousin, ducking out into the garden and climbing carefully over the garden fence. For some absurd reason, her face was flushed and her hands trembled slightly. The passionate happiness she'd accidentally come upon in that house brought unbidden thoughts to her mind and an odd extra warmth to her skin. She headed through her uncle's pastures, traveling the lonely way back home.

Veronique

There was a long silence. Tense with anxiety and hope, and shaken by his great love so long held in check, John fought to keep himself steady to her need.
"No need to make up your mind now, Veronique," he said gently. "I'll wait in Dunedin for your answer for as long as you like."
"John," she whispered, still with her face hidden, "why didn't you tell me before that you loved me?"
"Because it did not seem right to tell you. You see, until just lately you weren't grown-up."
"Was it hard to wait?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, "it was hard."
She was silent again, and he wondered agonizedly if she was antagonized by his past control, his present reserve. He need not have worried. She was pondering on the nature of his love, that, like Papa's, put the other person first. That was a thing that Frederick had never done.
Then she asked irrelevantly, "How did you know that Papa and I called our valley the Country of the Green Pastures?"
"Your father told me. But long ago, when I was a little boy, I called it that myself."
"The Twenty-third Psalm was the first I learned to say by heart," said Veronique. "Uncle Samuel taught it to me."
"The first I learned, too," said John. "And it's still my favorite."
"Mine too," said Veronique. "We think alike about lots of things, don't we?"
"Naturally," mumbled John. " 'For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, fed the same flock...' "
Suddenly she turned to him, lifting a transfigured face, and slipped her arms round his neck. "Your country is my country," she said.
Regardless of who might be passing by in the street he flung his arms about her, while old familiar words sprang to his lips as the pledge of faith. " 'The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.' "

From GREEN DOLPHIN STREET
A Novel by ELIZABETH GOUDGE

William

O my Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune!

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

Robert Burns

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Ceci was abruptly stopped by Mr. Brooke in the dramatic departure from what she thought a very off-putting conversation. She left her friends feeling almost humiliated by Samuel Redford's part in the dialogue. She would never admit it to herself, but there was also a quiet, lingering feeling of disappointment in her new acquaintance. She loved the country, her country,and its people, but nearly everyone she knew, excluding Marie Tout, her parents, and in some ways, Marguerite, expected a woman to be a meek, uneducated bumpkin. In the back of her mind, hidden behind her festering grudge against the well-to-do class, she'd hoped this gentleman possessed a more liberal viewpoint and might, if not argue her point, at the very least sympathize with it. But she was wrong, and in a way, it was a relief. She felt that if he had stood to her standards, she would be a traitor; first, because she had found a fault in the society of country folk she held so dear and belonged so thoroughly to, and second, because of the tiresome vow she'd made to herself and to the love she had for her sister to forever loathe the prideful upper crust.
Her mind was so engrossed with these thoughts that she hardly heard Mr. Brooke call her name until he was suddenly directly before her; she stopped mid-step, startled.
"Oh, Miss Moore-- are you alright? You're not leaving--?"
Poor Mr. Brooke.
"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Brooke. A terrible headache has just come upon me, and I'm afraid I'll have to retire early. It was a lovely party, though. You always give the most beautiful evening parties, you know."
Ceci said this hurriedly, for she was dismayed by dear Mr. Brooke's disappointment, but knew she could not stay.
"Well, dear, if you would just take a glass of wine, I'm sure--"
"No, no. Please," Ceci interrupted quickly, closing her eyes and pressing painfully at her temples, "I'm sure I'll be quite ill if I don't get home soon."
Quite suddenly, Mr. Corran Lennox was at her elbow. "Miss Moore, I'm terribly sorry-- are you alright?"
His anxious look sent a frustrating mixture of relief and annoyance through Ceci's mind.
"Quite, thank you," she replied, stiffening again. Why must he grasp my elbow like that as if I were about to swoon away?
"She says she has head-pains," Mr. Brooke said, with a sudden grin.
"Has she?" Mr. Lennox turned to Ceci. "Have you? May I walk you home? I only have my horse, but you might ride him--"
Ceci frowned. In a minute, she really was going to have a headache.
"You do begin to look ill, Miss Moore," Mr. Brooke said, hiding a grin behind a mask of worry and concern. "I believe you should let Mr. Lennox escort you home. It is most gracious of him, and your parents would be grateful, at this hour."
Ceci raised a hand to her head. Oh, for heaven's sake.
"Do let me take you home. Please," Mr. Lennox's grip on her elbow tightened slightly.
Well, if you're going to make that much fuss, Cecil thought. But what in heaven's name is that Brooke grinning for?
"I'm very much obliged," Ceci said finally, allowing Mr. Lennox to turn her in the direction of the house once more. "Mr. Brooke, be so kind as to tell Marguerite I've gone home with a little headache. Perhaps," a twinkle lit up her eyes for an instant, "You could suggest Christopher Tout to take her home?"
"Yes, yes, certainly." Mr. Brooke agreed vehemently, grinning ear to ear.

Though her mother and father had raised her to aspire to brains over beauty, Ceci always knew they would never approve of her secret inclination to wear men's trousers in order that she might ride. Really ride, not side-saddle, as young ladies were supposed to. Whipping wind always did wonders for her health.
Corran Lennox, expert equestrian, noticed that inclination in the way she mounted his horse; he smiled to himself. So far, this young woman had blasted away many misgivings he'd had in his thoughts after they'd met. He really was impressed by her, almost to admiration. She possessed a spirit that frightened away men who got a glimpse of it; but on the contrary, she had an inherent warmth and happy personality that drew people to her. Her careless laughter contradicted her sharp, thoughtful mind, a mind that had been built on a sound (though nontraditional) education. Yet, all of this fit comfortably into one person. In short, this was a young woman of paradox.
She immediately corrected her mistake, and mussed-up her dress to sit side-saddle. The poor horse looked almost as uncomfortable (with a lady on his back) as she did.
"If you feel faint, do tell me so at once. I'd hate for you to fall off and do harm to yourself." Corran looked up anxiously beneath his broad-rimmed blue hat.
"I'm perfectly well, Mr. Lennox. You needn't be afraid that I'll fall." Despite the comical nature of his hat, Ceci frowned down at him.
Corran took the lead, patted his horse's shoulder and began down the road.
Silence was never a thing Ceci could bear comfortably. Especially with someone near to a stranger. She said,"If you don't mind, Mr. Lennox, might I ask what you thought of Mr. Redford's conversation just now?"
"By 'Mr. Redford's conversation,' do you mean the way you bullied the poor fellow, or the way he answered your questions?"
Though he said this with a light, teasing manner, Ceci couldn't help but be indignant. It appeared very clearly in her voice.
"I'm sure I don't know what you could mean by bullying."
"You were merely trying to make a point, I know." Mr. Lennox said. "I only wonder, as you and Mr. Redford are such long acquaintances, why you took the trouble to wheedle away at the man when you must have already known what his answers would be. So, I suppose, to answer your question, I thought the conversation to be very curious."
He couldn't see it in the darkness, but Ceci was blushing furiously.
"Mr. Lennox," she said, gritting her teeth in anger, "I know it is the custom of such gentlemen as you to humble others with an arrogantly impressive display of conversation, but I must tell you I find it to be terribly ungracious and quite hateful."
Corran stopped. He turned round and looked up again at Ceci from beneath his hat, now askew.
"And what," he said, with an edge of cold in his voice, "would bring you to make such an assumption about me? How would you propose to know me so well?"
"Because you come from a society typical of such behavior, Mister Lennox." Ceci replied, spitting the words.
"Typical, really?" Corran paused. Then he shook his head and in silence, continued leading the horse down the lane.
Ceci was unnerved by his silence. Her anger continued to seethe, and underneath it, a growing sense of guilt that only made her more frustrated.
Of a sudden, Corran stopped again and looked up at Ceci. "Well, Miss Moore," his voice was very quiet, and despite the silent street, Ceci had to lean down a bit to hear. "I must tell you that when I first met you, I thought I saw such great kindness in you--real warmth, the kind I find so appealing in my country acquaintances. But I think you've proved that first impression quite wrong; and as for my behavior, I believe it hasn't been half so high and mighty as yours. " He turned now, walking slowly. "How does that little passage in the Bible go? Something about a splinter in your neighbor's eye?"
Now the guilt really did pervade Ceci's thoughts. In fact, it took her completely over. She had behaved monstrously. It was unkind to make a fool of poor Sam Redford. And to try and justify it in such a way...

... the journey down the lane seemed to draw out for ages. The whole long way, Ceci reflected and became more and more unnerved and upset.
Finally, they came to her house, and quietly she said, "We've reached my home, Mr. Lennox."
Mr. Lennox carefully and silently helped her dismount and walked her down her own walkway. Near to the great oak front door, Ceci said, "I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Lennox."
Corran nodded politely, avoiding her gaze as he turned to leave, until she said--almost in a whisper, "Before you go, I must apologize," she took a step forward with a contrite countenance, "for my appalling behavior. It was... most unkind and impolite. And really-- you must know, Mr. Lennox-- not a true example of my usual character."
Mr. Lennox smiled. "I know," he said.