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.

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Corran William Lennox had spent the better part of two days lost in painful thought concerning the interview he'd had with Sir Edward. Thank the Lord his dear father still retained excellent health. Thank heaven he was allowed a few years to settle these terrifying prospects in his mind and grow accustomed to the bulk of inheritance that would lay on his shoulders. Those were the thoughts that he clung to.
Lost in thought soon became unbearably restless; against his first impulse, he decided to attend his good friend Brooke's evening dance. He could put the heavy troubles away for a time, enjoy himself and come back to them later. He sent along a note of his acceptance of Mr. Brooke's invitation, apologizing for the lateness.
To put off the constantly reappearing worries of late, Corran wore his brightest colors that evening: deep blue with a striped green and light-blue vest, a bright blue cap, and an orange blossom in his lapel. He looked a little eccentric, he supposed, but the colors made his mood a little lighter. He laughed at the expression on Pearl's face as he passed her on his way to the stables.
He could see, hear, and smell the activity, excitement and gaiety before he reached the little farm manor. How he enjoyed leaving behind the cold stuffiness of his social circle for the warm gentleness of country folk and their assemblies. He had undoubtedly been born into the wrong social class.
Mr. Brooke overflowed with joyful grins and words upon his arrival. Corran smiled gratefully at his friend's earnest attentions. Brooke offered introductions without even being asked, and Corran was grateful for that as well. He had never quite grasped the art of introductions with strangers.
Mr. Brooke knew exactly whom Mr. Lennox should meet; she stood, stiff and straining on one side of the lawn, in quiet conversation with friends. Mr. Brooke thought it the greatest thing in the world that his two favorite party guests should meet. Corran recognized, even before they formally met, the book girl he'd passed on the road to town that morning's ride, the girl who'd immediately struck him and stuck in his mind. Her cold formality could not fool him; her hand was soft and obliging of its own accord as he bent over it. It seemed she could not be frigid if she wanted to; her own intrinsic warmth betrayed her, and Corran recognized it immediately. Clever Mr. Brooke quickly ushered Corran away to make more new acquaintances, and Cecil was left to reflect on first impressions.
For Corran's part, he could not help but cement one eye, one ear, and one area of his thoughts to the book girl for the rest of the evening. Every significant movement, reaction and conversation he caught and turned over and over in his mind. It wasn't terribly difficult. Standing on the opposite side of the lawn, conversing with a group of new (and eager) acquaintances, he could easily pick out her voice, and especially her laughter. Every other word began with laughter. He wished at times to know what was so damned funny that she should laugh so profusely. He began to pass off the Miss Moore as a member of the ridiculous order of females, of the giddy, featherbrained character. What other conclusion could one draw from a woman who laughed all together too often? And especially at social gatherings?

The nerve, Ceci thought, her thoughts seething. Brazen arrogance of the man to show up at poor Mr. Brooke's private party just to revel in the natural adoration of decent country folk. It's disgusting, the appalling vanity of this order of society weasels. She had not even the will power to plaster a smile to her face as he bent over her hand. She received his politeness with an icy nod. Poor Mr. Brooke stood beside the two of them, grinning like a fool. If she had an invisible boot or a pitchfork, she'd send this Mr. Lennox on his way, away from her. The minute he turned his back, she scowled. Marguerite, who had never seen her cousin in such an attitude before, was taken aback. Marie only looked confused. Christopher only looked at Marguerite.
When Ceci turned back to her company of friends, she almost laughed at the curious looks on their faces. She forgot her anger and annoyance for the moment, and that suddenly put her at ease.
"Well, let me tell you who would match our Mr. Corran William Lennox best of our humble little party, since he seems to be so desperate for feminine adoration. I believe Sophia Mills would make him the perfect mate."
Maria let out a hearty gaffah. "Miss Sophia Mills? She has a brain the size of a bird's!"
Marguerite, in all her self-righteous dignity, looked shocked.
"Yes, and so I said, perfect; for she has the beauty with no brains. You know gentlemen, especially of Mr. Lennox's character, prefer a woman that complements his looks. They're always loathe to bother with a woman who might challenge him or provide an alternate opinion. Men can never get on well with a woman who possesses a strong mind."
"But you know, Ceci," Maria objected, "gentlemen, especially those like our new friend Mr. Lennox must have a wife who is good in society, one who will speak very little, but speak it well and will always be persuaded to agree with him, so that he can always get his way."
"And so?" Ceci asked, raising an eyebrow in amusement, "who would fit that description? Beautiful, brainless, agreeable and a society belle?"
"Susanna Greggs." Maria replied with a smirk.
Ceci laughed with abandon. "Susanna? Oh, Maria, you are cruel. She's such a timid girl! Mr. Lennox would bully the poor thing till she'd be too afraid to open her mouth!"
Maria considered, and nodded.
"If not Sophia Mills and most definitely not Miss Greggs, then the woman is--"
At this point in the conversation, Ceci was interrupted by Samuel Redford, William Redford and Corran Lennox.
"Have you met this fellow?" Sam said to Ceci, gesturing behind him at Mr. Lennox.
Ceci nodded without expression. Oh, why in heaven's name would they bring him over here once more?
"A dandy chap, he is," William said.
Oh yes, thought Ceci, let's spread our words like true country cretins, that he might have more to deepen his self-importance.
"I'm sure," replied Ceci, clasping her hands together with self-contained fury.
"Did I hear Miss Greggs mentioned just now?" Sam said. The whole of the countryside knew (very well indeed) his devotion for Susanna Greggs.
Maria stifled a smirk. "Yes, actually. We were just discussing--"
Will interrupted. "Well, we all know who among us's taken a fancy to her!" Ceci suspected he said this before his cousin had a chance to enumerate the young woman's many charms, as he had a habit of doing.
Ceci laughed at the surprised and annoyed expression on Sam's face, but her laugh died away quickly when she caught Mr. Lennox's intent glance. Her clasped hands tightened again. "Mr. Redford," She said, addressing Samuel. "How would you act if Susanna quite suddenly refused to attend church?"
"How do you mean?" Sam asked, looking confused.
"If she expressed an averse opinion of the Anglican Church and stated an intent to enter a different Christian denomination?" Ceci kept an eye on Mr. Lennox's looks and movements.
"Leave the Anglican Church?" Sam said, aghast. "What? You mean, if she wanted to become... Catholic?"
"Yes, perhaps, Catholic. Or of the Lutheran persuasion. Tell me, what would you do?"
"Well," Sam said, looking upset, "I would refuse to marry her, I suppose. No wife of mine will be a Catholic... or one of the John Calvin, Martin Luther tribe."
"No?" Ceci said, feigning surprise.
"She--she hasn't spoken of such an idea to you, has she?" Sam said, leaning forward in frightened, hushed tones.
"No, not to me she hasn't. I just wonder, Mr. Redford, why you would refuse to marry a woman you obviously admire, simply because she believed or expressed something contrary to your own persuasion?" Ceci let a tiny grin touch her eyes, for Corran's expression at her side was one of surprise, and... could it be? Indignation?
"Miss Moore, erm, with respect," (Sam was ever the gentleman) "What woman has the just right to make decisions adverse to her man's?"
Ceci raised an eyebrow. She always knew this to be Samuel's standpoint, as most men of her acquaintance, but to hear it spoken aloud peaked her annoyance. "And so, Mr. Redford, you prefer a woman to be timid, quiet and agreeable?"
"Well..." Samuel stopped for a moment and looked slightly unbalanced.
"Good. I'll tell Susanna you said so." Cecil nodded politely to Mr. Lennox and left them, making her way stiffly across the lawn.

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Joyful, whistling Mr. Brooke strolled down the cobblestones to meet his guests. His favorite among them was the young Miss Moore, for her presence always made a pleasurable time. Arm in arm with her cousin Marguerite, her laughter fluttered through the air before her like a herald as she made her way up the lane. Smiling broadly, Mr. Brooke eagerly sent forward a hand to receive hers for a kiss. She laughed again. The little farm manor, so sweetly situated between field and meadow, was Ceci's favorite country villa and Mr. Brooke's soirees ever promised a delightful evening.
As ever, the manor was spectacular: lit with a thousand beeswax candles and glittering with chandelier prisms and the sparkles of ladies' gowns. The wood floors were waxed to mirror-perfection and the gold and white of decorative drapery spread a warmth through the rooms. A little string quartet played in the corner, and the lovely music carried easily through the hall. Ceci cast her eyes about for familiar faces. There was Sam Redford in the midst of some profound political discussion; he certainly didn't waste time, Ceci noted. And there, Mr. Redford's cousin William, forever the antagonist. Certainly they would be arguing the same worn out issues that continually plagued the country class. Ceci had learned long ago not to enter into conversation with this particular duo, for neither of them listened to differing opinions and were constantly repetitious.
Ceci jumped; suddenly by her side appeared James Carter; wickedly, he bent close to her ear so that her dark curls brushed the tip of his nose, and whispered a request for a dance. The sudden invasion unnerved her, but she hid her discomfort with a smile and a nod. To note here, Ceci's smile appeared at the corners of her mouth, but did not quite reach her eyes; Marguerite alone noticed it. Marguerite also noted her cousin's over-eager steps while she danced and the way she avoided catching James' eyes, averting her glance as she skipped her way through the crowd.
When the music died away again to the sound of appreciative applause, Mr. Brooke made a show of opening the great windowed oak doors and ushering his guests out onto the veranda and moonlit lawn. Moonlit, for this was a night when the grand harvest moon sat just above the horizon, which glowed a rich orange. Discomfort died away from Ceci's pale face and she sighed happily. The evening air cooled her nerves and she smiled at her cousin. Around them, elegant women with feathers and fans milled arm-in-arm with dark-suited gentlemen. Whispers in the air became laughter and conversation again, and the little quartet re-situated itself on the lawn, lit by the candlelight through the oak doors. Milling herself, Ceci found Marie Tout and her brother Christopher engaged in argument about whether the city or the country was better in the summer or the winter months. Ceci always enjoyed Marie's company; though she bore an altogether plain appearance, she had a perfectly amiable personality and always made her laugh. And her brother Christopher, a tall, handsome, dark-haired fellow was—she was quite sure—in love with her Marguerite. No doubt Marguerite returned the sentiment, though both were so bothersomely shy and indecisive that nothing had yet been done about it. And so Marie and Cecil often made it their end to attempt to leave the two alone together or goad them into conversation on particular subjects. Tonight, with pale, silent Marguerite at her elbow, Ceci began to talk of a friend who had set her wedding date for the late summer months, but had decided after much consideration to hold the ceremony in the country.
Marie quickly piped up with, “Oh yes. I am sure she was right; weddings, you know, are so much pleasanter in the fresh open air of the country, in both summer and wintertime. After all, who would want a ceremony stuffed up in a crowded church outside a busy street? Not terribly romantic, indeed. What do you think, Marguerite? If it had been your wedding, summer in the country?”
Marguerite bit her lip. “I think I would agree that in the summer, a wedding in the country would be much more agreeable. But I do enjoy the city. It's um—very busy and exciting. There's always so many things to do.” Her face peered up at Christopher's for just an instant. He looked uncomfortable.
Marie grinned at Ceci. “You know, we shall never ask your opinion, Chris. Men are never allowed their opinion concerning such things, since tradition holds that the poor bride must manage all the wedding plans!”
Ceci giggled. “It's too true,” she said. “I'll make note of it when your time comes, Marguerite. You'll have my help, at least.”
Marguerite blushed.
“Oh, how exciting it would be to have a wedding!” Marie exclaimed. “We haven't had anyone married in months and months. Not since Clement Hall and Diana Newberry were married last year; and they moved away!”
“It would be nice, wouldn't it, to have a wedding.” Ceci laughed again at poor Christopher and Marguerite's unnerved expressions, both simultaneously trying to catch and avert each other's glances.
Marie laughed (with wicked undertones) along with Ceci. “A wedding and then a christening!”
Ceci was a little surprised at Marie's audacity; but after all, he was her brother.
Ceci suddenly became aware of a hush spreading through the crowd of guests. A few awkward laughs hung in the silenced air; Ceci looked about to see the reason.
There was a fellow standing in the oakwood doorway, speaking animatedly with Mr. Brooke, who beamed and frowned in succession. The hush tapered away as a feminine rush of whispers broke out.
“Who in heaven's name...?” Ceci said, staring fixedly at the young man. She'd certainly never seen him before but felt oddly that she'd encountered his personage once earlier.
Marguerite and Marie both knew at once. “Oh, Ceci,” Marie began, a little exasperated. “Did you not hear Mr. Brooke speaking of the gentleman? The man couldn't shut up about him.”
Ceci gave her a blank look. “His name is Corran William Lennox. He lives on that enormous estate on the other side of town. His father is Sir Edward Lennox, of a very old and wealthy family.” This information was whispered to Ceci by the ever-present Marguerite. She didn't notice, but at her side, Christopher gave her a surprised look. Marguerite continued, “His father's estate is worth thousands; Mr. Corran Lennox is the most eligible bachelor in the north country and he hasn't even reached five and twenty yet.” Christopher's look became more worried then surprised.
Ceci touched Marguerite's arm appreciatively and leaned around to attempt to get a better look at the man. I hope he's homely, she thought. It'd be easier to detest him and all his wealth and airs if he's unbearably ugly.
In this, she was unfortunately disappointed.

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Corran awoke in the night with a panicked start. A painful gasp escaped his lungs as he sat straight up in his bed. Howling had begun directly below his open window and his shaking legs rushed to look out. There in the grass, half lit by moonlight, lay the form of his elder brother Theodore. Clad in nightshirt, dressing gown and his thick riding boots, Corran rushed down the stairs and burst (quietly, if you will) out the door.
His brother was cold as death, but still breathing when the young man finally reached him. One of the dogs, who produced the frightful howl, stood at Theodore's side. Two years ago, this had been a common occurrence, a routine. But tonight of all nights, Corran stormed inwardly at his elder brother's drunken carelessness. He had been drinking and gambling once again and tonight managed to stumble in a stupor to his father's front door. When the first of these episodes began, Corran vowed he would never permit knowledge of Theo's behavior to reach Sir Edward, for his father's sake as well as Theodore's. The aging man already knew his eldest son's (once his pride and joy) gambling habits and loose acquaintances-- what would happen to Sir Edward's health and dignity if he knew the full extent?
Corran dragged his unconscious brother up the staircase without a sound. Thankfully, Theo did not begin groaning until he was safely down the long dim hallway and behind a closed door. Corran administered a glass of something to delude the concentrated effects of the liqueur, set an empty basin beside the bed and left his brother to recover. He would not sympathize with Theodore's certain head pains in the morning; he only hoped the booze and brandy would not have any lasting effects.
The next day did not set Corran's nerves at ease. He was troubled and nervous all morning at his brother's disturbing aspect. A haze from the previous night's drinking bout still lingered in Theodore's eyes and his mind and voice were confused. Exhaustion, it seemed, produced the beginnings of a fever and Corran feared calling for a doctor. He managed to obtain the services of the local town doctor, the physician of one of Sir Edward's tenants, who knew how to keep a secret.
Near evening, however, the haze and fever subsided, and Theo fell into a heavy sleep. Corran thought it safe enough to let his brother to himself. This meant, unfortunately, that word had to be given in some form or other to Sir Edward that his eldest son had returned home, never mind under what circumstances. Corran's instinct was to enlighten his father through Pearl somehow; as his only daughter and sweetheart, she had a knack for softening the blow of troublesome news. But this was a trick he'd long outgrown. It was, in any case, he who discovered Theodore on the doorstep and if he was any kind of man he would have the courage to approach the subject himself, despite his father's uneven temper.
The conversation began, as Corran was well prepared, with initial anger. The trust Sir Edward had once placed in Theodore Lennox had long since declined and the truth Corran carefully omitted about his situation, Sir Edward quickly suspected.
"What is possibly left to him now?" Sir Edward said despondently. Hands clenched behind his back, he paced the polished floor before the fireplace.
Corran knew better than to attempt an answer.
Sir Edward stopped and turned to his son. "I might as well tell you now, Corran, that your brother will not retain much inheritance when I am dead. There is not much now that I would trust him with and I know that you will dutifully care for your stepmother and sister when I am gone."
Corran's eyes darted to his father's face. "I don't understand you," he said, a painful feeling of apprehension growing in his chest.
Sir Edward let out an impatient sigh. "Of course you do. I know full well how you recoil from participating in the prosperity this family enjoys. It is a responsibility I would rather not impart, knowing how it would burden you. Still, there is nothing else for it. You had better grow accustomed to the idea and rest your thoughts on future plans."
Corran rose from his seat, gripping his fists at his sides. "You cannot think of tying me here... surely you're not serious!" he said, completely abandoning his calm disposition.
Sir Edward's eyes flashed. "Understand, Corran, this estate and the wealth it entails will be yours and you must accustom yourself to the idea. Take pride in what generations of men have worked to vouchsafe you."

Corran sat where his father left him for hours, attempting to dispel the combination of dread, anger and disbelief that invaded his thoughts. He could not possibly accept sole inheritance of his father's wealth; yet it seemed he had no choice. Something dark and heavy lingered on his chest; it would cost him many sleepless nights and more.

Brontë

'Don't talk any more of those days, sir,' I interrupted, furtively dashing away some tears from my eyes; his language was torture to me; for I knew what I must do--and do soon-- and all these reminiscences and these revelations of his feelings only made my work more difficult.
'No, Jane,' he returned: 'what necessity is there to dwell on the Past, when the Present is so much surer-- the Future so much brighter?' I shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion. 'You see now how the case stands-- do you not?' he continued, 'After a youth and manhood passed in unutterable misery and half in dreary solitude, I have for the first time found what I can truly love--I have found you. You are my sympathy-- my better self-- my good angel-- I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you-- and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.'

Fading

Bubbles one afternoon

Brontë

'...I was an intellectual epicure, and wished to prolong the gratification of making this novel and piquant acquaintance: besides, I was for a while troubled with a haunting fear that if I handled the flower freely its bloom would fade--the sweet charm of freshness would leave it. I did not then know that it was no transitory blossom; but rather the radiant resemblance of one, cut in an indestructible gem. Moreover, I wished to see whether you would seek me if I shunned you-- but you did not: you kept in the school-room as still as your own desk and easel; if by chance I met you, you passed me as soon, and with as little token of recognition, as was consistent with respect. Your habitual expression in those days, Jane, was a thoughtful look; not despondent, for you were not sickly; but not buoyant, for you had little hope, and no actual pleasure. I wondered what you thought of me-- or if you ever thought of me; to find this out I resumed my notice of you. There was something glad in your glance and genial in your manner when you conversed: I saw you had a social heart; it was the silent school-room-- it was the tedium of your life-- that made you mournful. I permitted myself the delight of being kind to you; kindness stirred emotion soon: your face became soft in expression, your tones gentle; I liked my name pronounced by your lips in a grateful, happy accent. I used to enjoy a chance meeting with you, Jane, at this time: there was a curious hesitation in your manner: you glanced at me with a slight trouble-- a hovering doubt: you did not know what my caprice might be-- whether I was going to play the master and be stern, or the friend and be benignant. I was now too fond of you often to stimulate the first whim; and, when I stretched my hand out cordially, such bloom and light and bliss rose to your young, wistful features, I had much ado often to avoid straining you then and there to my heart.'

Words on a page

Corran rose the moment the sun's warmth touched his face. Slowly, he traveled across the floor of his room to the window, which he slowly unfastened and opened. Glorious day, he breathed. He had become restless and impatient with the previous raining mornings and cloudy afternoons, though he would have no scruples in drenching himself for the sake of a morning ride and an escape from the stuffy indoors. His father, on the other hand, would have been less than happy with a wet, sullied, careless son and for Sir Edward, Corran Lennox would patiently last a year's duration of dull, indoor afternoons.
The promising weather thrilled Corran's mood and an abnormal burst of energy-- for so early in the day-- quickened his waking progress. It barely took him more than a minute or two to dress, breakfast and saddle his mount before he was off. Luckily, his ride was similarly spirited and easily animated; it was the reason they made such a genial pair. Sir Edward, who knew well his second son's habits, often took the opportunity to remark on Corran Lennox's superior horsemanship with the purpose of disguising one of his son's many eccentricities. It wasn't so far from the truth, in any case.
The day was glorious; a breeze unaccompanied by high winds, warm without excessive heat, dewy and sultry without soggy saturation hanging heavy in the air. The sun squeezed between the trees and flitted past the summer leaves, crossing Corran's path through stages of light and shadow. After a time of strenuous racing, Corran began to feel guilty and let his horse slow to a walk; besides, his back and legs felt unnaturally stiff. He let his tense muscles relax and leisurely took in the refreshed landscape and heavenly day.
The trees parted after a moment and the leaf-strewn forest path became a well-trodden hay-wagon roadway. The sun did not favor the woods over the fields; they were green and golden patched and Corran grinned for the happy aspect. Morning rides always succeeded in effecting a more agreeable mood. This beautiful day, he happened farther from the manor than usual; his ride circled the purlieu of town. Traveling back towards Lennox fields, Corran passed a young woman, seemingly absorbed in a book. An armful of similar items rested in the crook of her arm; he wondered how she managed to carry, walk and read all at once. Curiously, and for some unknown reason, he was struck by the girl's appearance; her dress was uninteresting enough, drab and plain. But her face and figure exuded something unnaturally graceful and salient. He turned in his seat to watch her pass. Later, he laughed at himself; his frame of mind was entirely too careless and externally absorbed.
Upon arriving home (to his father's home) he was assailed by his sister Pearl, who demanded to know why her new governess insisted she spend an hour painting.
"A whole hour!" the golden-haired girl cried, raising her eyes to heaven in exasperation.
Corran laughed and pulled a fistful of curls. "If anything, it will teach you patience-- a lesson you sorely lack. But what could be so odious about painting?"
She glowered until he finally released the fistful and at his last words, stared at him in astonishment. "Have you ever sat for such a long time and tried to make colored water into a picture?" she replied, crossing her arms.
"No," he admitted, grinning down at her.
"The argument rests," she replied. "Go and tell her it's a useless endeavor. She might as well teach me to sew and I could forever have bloody fingertips."
He did not usually entertain his sister's objections, but this morning they humored him. "Why don't you take your demands to your mother?" he said, still grinning.
Here her triumphant smugness melted into a sulky scowl. "She won't listen. And of course Father won't argue against Mother's decision. Oh, it isn't fair!"
Corran tousled her hair. "Then, I'm afraid, it's useless to come to me with your grievances." He handed the lead to the impatient stable boy and headed through the courtyard.
Upon reaching the base of the staircase, a servant approached with a letter. As he sat once more by his room's only window, he opened and read it. He grinned at its contents: another of Mr. Brooks' country soirées--he had taken to disguising the invitations with commonplace paper notes and otherwise little adornment. Brooks knew as well as Corran that Sir Edward could hardly find it in his heart to forgive his son of such base associations, much less similar societal gatherings. It was the one thing Corran had a hard go at forgiving Sir Edward for; pride ruined the opportunity his father might have in befriending sincere, genuine, generous people. Anyway, Corran never had such a thrilling time milling and conversing with rich strangers. He happily anticipated the event.

Brontë

'In that field, Adèle, I was walking late one evening about a fortnight since--the evening of the day you helped me to make hay in the orchard meadows; and as I was tired with raking swaths, I sat down to rest me on the stile; and there I took out a little book and a pencil, and began to write about a misfortune that befell me long ago and a wish I had for happy days to come: I was writing away very fast, though daylight was fading from the leaf, when something came up the path and stopped two yards off me. I looked at it. It was a little thing with a veil of gossamer on its head. I beckoned it to come near me; it stood soon at my knee. I never spoke to it, and it never spoke to me, in words: but I read its eyes, and it read mine; and our speechless colloquy was to this effect: --It was a fairy, and come from Elf-land, it said; and its errand was to make me happy: I must go with it out of the common world to a lonely place--such as the moon, for instance--and it nodded its head towards her horn, rising over Hay-hill: it told me of the alabaster cave and silver vale where we might live. I said I should like to go; but reminded it, as you did me, that I had no wings to fly.'

Words on a page

Corran Lennox loved his father. It was clear and plain in the young man's actions and expressions. However, Corran knew his father's pride in honor and title and though he respected such pride, he generally felt an aversion to it. Though born of a wealthy ranking and entitled to most everything a gentleman could want, he preferred the periphery to the limelight. He could never be comfortable in circles of elegant, arrogant women and stuffy starched gentlemen and he abhorred the cold, spacious rooms and echoing halls of his father's manor. Instead, his constant companion was his horse and his haunts were the fresh forests and hills of Lennox land. He was on uncommonly friendly terms with his father's tenants and workers, with whom he shared his thoughts and conversation. Many of them knew Sir Edward's plans to bequeath the Lennox estate to his second son Corran and could not have been more pleased, for they greatly esteemed the open and amiable character of the young man.

To the rich young women, Mr. Corran William Lennox was the most eligible, sighed-after young gentleman in the country.

Too bad he avoided them like the plague.

Blossom

More words on a page

Mr. Corran William Lennox resided in the country. His father, Sir Edward William Lennox, was a man highly respected and esteemed as well as highly prosperous. The name Lennox resounded in the upper-class ear with a heavy echoing note and was constant on the lips of well-to-do neighborhood gossipers. However, the piteous blows that would level any other man of precarious social-standing only stood to boost Sir Edward to admiration in his peers' eyes.

The late Lady Melanie Lennox bore two sons to her beloved husband before her life was taken by illness. Sir Edward, though a proudly stiff man, sincerely loved Lady Melanie and this first blow nearly drove him senseless. Three full years straightened his back and his resolution once again. He remarried the fourth year to a gentle woman of noble birth, fifteen years his junior. She, frail and slight as she was, gave him a daughter, Pearl.

A second blow to Sir Edward's pride only stiffened his backbone. Mr. Theodore William Lennox, Sir Edward's eldest son, was a drunkard and a cad. Nothing Sir Edward would do could reverse the harm this did to the family name save disinheritance, and since his pride outgrew his fatherly love, this was just was Sir Edward set his will to.

Words on a page

Frances was the opposite of her younger sister Ceci. Frances was timid, fragile and boring with a pallid face, sour expression and limply lank figure. She had little to say on any subject and no interest in reading, writing or fine arts. Instead, she was an avid knitter. At least such an activity kept the blood circulating through her fingers.

Upon first impression, Ceci was often deemed a silly girl. This was due to the fact that she loved to laugh; she found joy in many people, things and places such that a smile was her constant adornment and a laugh was never far off. To the people who knew her, she was a character of extremes; her face uncannily betrayed her darkest anger and her deepest anguish which were rarely provoked. To the people she cared for, they were emotions one never wanted to rouse for the consequences were very high and terrible.

I say many, upon first introductions, found Ceci a silly young woman; however, she was very clever, informed and well-read. The depth of her knowledge was not exact but she learned quickly and eagerly. She knew very well the refined ladies and gentlemen would deem her helpless and hopeless musically; still, she possessed some talent in painting and most enjoyed writing. She belonged out doors; her friends were farmers and she spent hours in her father's woods, daring Mrs. Eleanor Moore's dignified disapproval.

A Mr. James Carter, farmer by profession, was perhaps Ceci's most devoted admirer. He fell easily for the soft, rosy girl with the dark ringlets who happened every morning past his field. Shy but determined, he made his admiration known to Ceci and she permitted his attentions... carelessly, perhaps. She was flattered, but not touched by his devotion. Still, she resolved that if no other man impressed or upset her, she would consent to be Mrs. James Carter and would be ever more tied to the land.

Words on a page

Cecilia Olivia Moore had never once met with disappointment. She sat by her sister Rebecca's bed for hours the night the girl first had her heart broken. Ceci herself maintained the good fortune of a young heart still intact, but all the same she declared to her sister her fixed hatred for all members of the wealthy class and stubbornly refused to characterize them as anything but heartless, self-centered snobs. From that day, she vowed never to associate with anyone claiming the status, and for a long time easily fulfilled the promise. The wrong endured by her elder sister at the hands of a young gentleman (perpetually bedecked in ridiculous finery in Ceci's memory) was fresh in Ceci's mind even after Becca was taken up by a young lawyer and swept off to the coast of Ireland.
Such was Ceci's worst fault: that of stubborn, unforgiving prejudice induced by any disappointment suffered by the ones she loved. Not such a terrible vice, perhaps, especially given her reasoning.

In any case, Miss Cecilia Moore was the daughter of a middle-class gentleman. Mr. Timothy Moore boasted two most noteworthy treasures: a remarkably large library for so small a household space and an impressive acreage of meadow, farm and wooded land. The first was mainly on account of the interests of his daughter Ceci, the second thanks to an inheritance that spanned five generations. The land Mr. Moore retained had been Moore land for as long as the eldest grandfathers of the town could remember; it was a burdensome honor that would be passed to Quincy, Mr. Moore's eldest son and youngest child.

Though Ceci loved her father's land much more than her little brother Quincy, she recognized her fate from an early age. She would receive little to no inheritance--money or land; thus her primary duty was to secure a successful husband who might offer her comfort and protection. If she succeeded in that scheme, she would be expected to provide grandchildren.
Still, at nineteen, she did not fret. As yet she had no reason; she had never once been disappointed.

Baby

L-O-V-E

Oh Art building, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways: Oh, the beauteous gargoyles that bedeck your brick exterior; the bronze statues that beautify your grass grounds; the charcoal dust embedded in the concrete outside your squeaky doors; the graffiti outlines that stain the ground of your sidewalks; the dangerous wire and netting that poke out from your entrances from forgotten student projects; the lovely whiteness of your sunny windowed gallery; the bumper stickers and odd expired art show pamphlets that hang from studio doors; the creepy clay-stained bathroom doors; randomly placed chairs, wooden blocks, misplaced drawings and paper-cutters; the warm studios but freezing lecture hall; and the apple trees that blossom outside your windows without fail every spring. Oh Art building, how I love thee. And how I look to the time I may spend within you next fall in your painting studio. I always treasure the time we spend together.

Our little life

PROSPERO:

These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

The Tempest
Act 4, Scene 1

Emmaus

Rain

Somehow it was alive.
It grew out of the page, threw itself out at you, even if you only glanced for a second.
This is how she wanted it; she wanted to spend every minute in this tiny, cramped space with only a small window and a desk lamp for light. Her friends wondered where she went and what had happened to her; she refused, with kindness, to let them see her space at all. First of all, there was no room and second, well... it was an experiment, wasn't it? Not just one, even; many many experiments overflowing the wall space and spilling out of the corners, growing off her desk. So many lovely lively experiments that could be anything and would never truly be finished. That was alright, because to her there was nothing more beautiful than a blatantly unfinished piece; it took so much will power to stop and let it be and understand the wonderful potential it could possess.
In her space she was alive without worries; she didn't bother herself over school and the future because she knew her experiments contributed to her future in a valuable way. She didn't worry about work because her pieces always had the potential as a source of income (even though she abhorred the idea of selling them to people she didn't know and didn't care about.) She didn't worry about him either. He didn't matter here and sooner or later he would start to not matter in the other parts of her life. And that definitely made her happier.

She sat in her space and listened to the rain and the far-off echo and mumble of thunder. She loved the rain; she was born in the rain. She wanted to make it too; it would be her next experiment.

Bridget

Dazed

"I love the rain. I was born in the rain."

Opportunity

She was suffocating from the stale air of the indoors and her lungs demanded fresh, clean air. She fidgeted the whole hour and a half of her last afternoon class, distracted by the sunshine on her back. Against her better judgment (and her number one pet-peeve) she began to pack her books before the professor had even finished his lecture. He gave her the Look, but she didn't notice. She was the first student out the door.
She bumped into Bridget (literally) in her post-class relief and distracted breath of fresh air. "Where're you headed?" Bridget asked, catching a paper mid-fall.
"The park," she replied, nodding in that direction.
"Hey, I'll join you." Bridget stuffed the paper back in her bag.
She reached the maple overlooking the lake and collapsed on the grass in its shade. She noted that the ground was slightly damp, but decided to ignore it. Bridget, on the other hand, carefully laid her over-sized college sweatshirt on the grass before sitting.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. Ah, sweet freedom she thought. Then she stared incredulously at Bridget. "How can you do homework? It's the afternoon--you're supposed to procrastinate for at least six hours before you start that crap."
"Is that supposed to be like, you're supposed to wait twenty minutes after eating before getting in the pool?" Bridget rolled her eyes. "I have a presentation on Friday."
She groaned and rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin on her fists. Winter was way too long this year, she reflected. I was sure I'd go insane being shut inside. With these particular reflections, she would always scoff at the stupid commercials advertising all the wonderful stuff you could do up north during the excruciatingly long winters. Ha. Smart (and wealthy) people always vacationed in the warm southern states--or Europe, she sighed--when cold weather hit.
A sudden weariness came over her and she closed her eyes, letting her face drop against her forearms. She mumbled at Bridget to wake her up later. In the back of her mind she knew a religion paper needed writing, but she let her mind wander until her subconscious took over.
She dreamt of her old high school and running up and down flights of stairs trying to find the art studio. She was late, she knew, and the panic only made her clumsy. In her dream she tripped, and her subconscious mind suddenly connected with the rest of her, jolting her roughly out of her dream and back into reality.
It was late afternoon, and the sun was suddenly shining directly in her eyes. She sat up, squeezing her eyes shut. Her muscles were strangely unresponsive; she had to concentrate to make them obey her. She rubbed at her eyes and looked around. Where was Bridget? Her backpack and sweatshirt were still there, but she was gone. Off walking, probably, she thought.
Her stomach suddenly spoke up. Darn that Bridget. She dug her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed Bridget's number. Then she groaned when the muffled ring tone from Bridget's cell sounded from inside her book bag. Her stomach complained again. Well, fine. She picked up Bridget's bookbag and sweatshirt along with her own and trudged toward the park sidewalk. She figured Bridget would know where she went and hopefully wouldn't freak when she couldn't find her stuff.
She stopped when she spotted someone ahead of her. He sat on a park table, reaching inside a brown paper lunch bag. Gulp. How... unexpected. This was the guy she'd planned to meet all year... though it seemed every golden opportunity resulted in a failure of courage on her part. He was alone; that was good. Her mind screamed golden opportunity! over and over. She stomped her foot. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and she was definitely... desperate. And pathetic. And a list of other things...
Without reflecting on how ridiculous she appeared burdened with two bulging bookbags and an oversized sweatshirt, she stomped up to the picnic table... and walked right past it. Her mind continued to scream at her, this time louder. Her heart beating wildly, she whipped around to face him.
The good first step: he actually looked up and acknowledged her presence when she turned. The next step was not so smooth. "H-hi," she said, her voice obviously wavering.
His face was either bewildered or confused. But he hinted a smile. "Hi there."
"Um... okay, this is going to sound really ridiculous. But... I just really wanted to introduce myself. And you were sitting here all by yourself, so I thought I would." This explanation vomited out of her in one big splat. She gulped again.
"Oh, yeah... okay. You are?" He looked over his glasses at her and then pushed them up the bridge of his nose.
"Oh! Sorry! I'm Emilie."
"Hi Emilie. I'm Mark."
She nodded, not sure if she should stick out her hand for the customary greeting. So she just stood there awkwardly, desperately hoping he would continue.
"So, Emilie, would you like to sit?" he gestured to the bench opposite him and picked up his sandwich.
"Uh, yeah sure." She plopped herself down on the seat.
"So you must be a real studier with two book bags. Wow. How many classes?" he took a bite.
"Oh, no. One of these is actually my friend Bridget's. Um... she and I were studying over there. An' well, I kinda fell asleep and she took off. I don't know where she went. I was just gonna wait for her."
"Ah, right."
"Yeah... she didn't take her cell either or I could just call her." She shook her head. She knew she appeared overly nervous with the conversation, but so far, so good.
"Hmmm." he answered. He didn't look uncomfortable. On the contrary, he openly stared at her, like he was studying her appearance. Her face burned.
"So... " she continued, after he'd finished the sandwich and gulped down his drink. "What's your major?"
"Music. Well... music and English... and a little bit of Greek." He adjusted his glasses again. Then he shrugged and said, "You?"
"Art. Studio Art and Art History. I guess I'll be minoring in religion or English. Maybe." She shrugged in response.
"So then, what classes are you taking?" He asked, showing a surprising amount of interest for someone previously nonchalant.
But she just assumed he was being polite. She wondered in the back of her mind whether he wanted her to go and leave him alone. So she tried to sound confident when she answered, "Renaissance and Baroque Art-- that's Art History, I guess... a Ceramic Sculpture class, and Portfolio review. And the Reformation, just to even it out."
He grinned. "Ah, those wonderful religion classes." She recognized the sarcasm. "Who do you have?"
"Um... Mills. He's okay. He rattles on a bit, but not too bad."
"Huh, that's lucky. I had Erica Johnson. She wasn't so great... pretty dry. Plus, it was an eight-thirty class." he rolled his eyes.
She laughed. "Oh, I feel for you. I had to take a math class at eight last year. That sucked."
"Oh hey, what year are you then? Sophomore?"
"Junior."
"Oh." he nodded.
"You?" she asked, even though she was already pretty sure. He had the air of a senior.
He sighed. "This is my last year here."
"Oh, that's sad." She didn't pretend to be sorry. "So what are you planning to do after you graduate?"
"Some student teaching. Then maybe grad school. Maybe. I'm thinking I need a break from studying." He grinned.
"Yeah. That's cool though. You play an instrument?"
"Cello."
"Wow. I've always thought that was impressive. My musical abilities are pretty much nil."
"Really? Well, if it makes you feel any better, my art skills are non-existent. I'm limited to stick figures, and even those are pretty bad."
She laughed again.
"So junior... don't you guys have art shows and stuff?"
"Yeah. It's actually up now. The other art majors have some really impressive stuff up in the gallery. You should check it out, if you have time. The art building's pretty close to the music building. You don't really have an excuse."
"Whoa, okay! I'll probably stop by. So what do you have up there?" He leaned forward a bit, propping his chin up on his fist.
"Oh... not a lot, I guess. Some paintings, a couple drawings... some 3-D stuff." She shrugged and tried to look nonchalant, even though she was excited at the prospect that he might see her stuff.
"Well, I'll definitely stop by. Sounds awesome. I've always admired artsy people. Heh," he grinned again. "You can usually spot art majors, too. Piercings and colorful and weird clothing."
She pretended to look offended, and noted how quickly she was becoming comfortable as the conversation flowed. "Weird clothing?" Piercings? She looked down at herself. She was wearing black, mostly. Her only other piercing besides the customary double ear thing was a tiny nose stud she'd gotten her last birthday. She nodded at him. "And what about you, huh? I notice you wear a lot of black. Typical sensitive musician."
He raised an eyebrow. "You notice, do you?" he teased.
She blushed... but just a bit.
He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."
After a moment of grinning to herself, he said, "so anyway..." and she thought for a sad moment that he was thinking of going. "What are you planning to do after college?"
"Besides live in a box, you mean?"
He grinned. She was beginning to enjoy that grin.
"That's the running joke, I guess. But I think I'll go to Art school. Maybe even somewhere out of state."
He raised an eyebrow. "Out of state, huh? Where're you from?"
"The cities. They have a pretty good school up there, but not exciting enough for me. But how about you? Out of state?"
"Nope. Born and bred right here. I used to live in the cities... where my girlfriend worked."
She was stung inwardly... she'd never thought he might already be attached.
He continued, "But I moved farther south after we broke up."
Relief. She tried not to let it show on her face and hoped he wouldn't guess what she was thinking.
"So you're a city girl, huh? Any favorite city haunts?" He seemed more and more intent on continuing the conversation.
She wouldn't argue. "Oh, there's a bunch of great coffee shops. Shabby compared to the universal Starbucks, but they make the best coffee. And hey, I'm an art freak, right? I spend at least every Saturday in the uptown Art Museum. They have this great new exhibit--"
She was cut off. Bridget was suddenly behind her saying, "There you are, girl! What the hell?"
She looked up and sheepishly shrugged, glancing over at Mark. "Sorry... hey, wait a minute! You're the one who disappeared! Where were you?"
"Where do you think? I got antsy and you were asleep, so I went for a run." Bridget leaned forward on her knees.
She noted that Bridget was out of breath. "A run, huh?" She glanced at him, still sitting expectantly across the table. She noticed he appeared a bit uncomfortable. "Hey Bridget, this is Mark." she gestured to him, trying to appear casual.
"Hey," Bridget waved, still rather breathless.
"Hey," he returned. He fidgeted slightly and for a panicked moment she thought he'd make an excuse to leave. And before they'd ended their conversation properly; she wanted permission to talk to him again.
Thank heaven for Bridget. Instead of ignoring him in her restlessness, she said, "So do you guys have a class together or something?" She sat down on the bench next to her.
"No, actually. We just met." he betrayed a slight grin.
"Yeah," she said. "I kinda interrupted his lunch." She shrugged her shoulders apologetically.
"Hey, no problem. It was a welcome interruption." He smiled kindly at her.
Bridget made a face at her. Her face flushed slightly and she knocked Bridget's ankle under the table. Suddenly Bridget sat up and loudly exclaimed, "Oh! Emilie hun, I just forgot! I have a study meeting I've gotta get to. I should go... I still need to grab some food, too. Damn." Bridget stood up quickly and grabbed her sweatshirt and bag from her. "See you later! Nice meeting you, Mark!" She ran off across the lawn.
She waved at Bridget and slowly turned back to him. "Sorry," she said, "If you have some place to be..."
"Nah," he answered and shrugged. "Not busy tonight, which is a rare occurrence."
A sudden surge of courage egged her on to ask, "Say, if you're not busy... would you maybe like to grab some coffee or something?" Her heart pounded in her ears. That might be good; maybe then she wouldn't hear his 'no.'
"Sure." He grinned and made to get up.
She beamed inwardly and reached down for her bag.
They headed off together toward the college cafe.

And that, my friends, was the start of a beautiful friendship.

Personal

Argh.

Did you ever have one of those days when nothing you did turned out right, even to the minutest details? And you really wanted to cry about it or throw something or scream, and you couldn't even get that out? And on top of that you were exhausted but knew you had two exams, a project, an art exhibit and work the following week? And then you realized just how much more life was going to suck?
But you just wanted to go to bed.

I just want to go to bed.

I have a feeling

I'm not fooling anybody.

Bubble

I need to keep going. I need to keep my spirits up. I need to stop feeling so stupid when I make a mistake. Mistakes help us grow. Imagine how stunted we'd be if we were so careful to avoid mistakes. Gotta keep telling myself that. Positive. I need to stay positive.
If there really is a wheel of fortune, I'm near the bottom now but I know it keeps spinning. I may be at the top again soon. I may have to hit the bottom first, but sooner or later I will achieve a height again. Reality isn't so bad. I still have my bubble, even if it isn't as spacious as it used to be.
Hey, it sounds pathetic, but we all have our little comfort bubbles, right? You can gloat and say you don't have one, or yours is little because you've grown and matured away from your initial comfort zone. But we all have our little necessary securities. Isn't that all we strive for, anyway? Life is about that security: financially, socially, spiritually... through a good job, a steady paycheck, a spouse and family, an identifiable faith (or at least a "faith community.")
Despite what people say about college being the period before a young adult enters the "real world", college is an unsteady place because you're constantly faced with the "where" and the "what" questions. "Where are you going to be after college?" and "What will you do with your life?" One may choose to ignore these scary questions, but they're still there... in the back of your mind. To leap into the lions den of "real life" in order to obtain that security is terrifying for some.
Me? I still have a good four to six years of education. We never stop learning, right? One step at a time. My bubble is still pretty big.

Big and Bright

1 Corinthians

Though I have all faith so that I could remove mountains and have not love, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor and though I give my body to be burned and have not love, it profiteth me nothing. Love suffereth and love is kind. Love envieth not. Love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up.

When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child. But when I became a man, I put away childish things. But now abideth faith, hope, love... these three.
But the greatest of these is love.

Pff.

Message inside my Fortune Cookie:
"expect the unexpected in your love life."
I laughed.

Per Te

Rubbish

Her friend often said that men who played the cello were sexy. She replied that this generalization could be applied to all violins or string instruments, and she firmly believed that statement.
It was embarrassing, but she still enjoyed remembering the evening she ushered at the play. It was an important event-- crazy alumni who paid 250+ for center seats meant the department had to dress it up a bit. The house manager had a box full of old theatre costume pieces: hats, gloves, vests, scarves... all to snazz up the drab black usher uniforms. The supervisor, a funny woman the entire department adored, handed her a big black top hat with a sparkling silver band over the brim. "Put it on," her supervisor demanded. "If I have to wear one, so do you!" She put the hat on, laughing at every one's gleeful expressions and silly remarks. That's when he walked by, violin and music stand in hand... perfect timing, she thought, and she knew her face had taken on a pinker hue. What boggled her more was that her manager assigned her to door 2, right outside of the little string quartet. He sat almost directly across from her, where she stood feverishly steering her mind towards the job at hand. Still, she couldn't help staring... watching them play. If only she could just sit and listen and not deal with rich, crabby jackasses demanding her attention. The music was beautiful, even if it was meant for the said asses and not for her. She wanted to kick that jerk in the face when he goaded her for spacing out. Let me hear the music, dammit! She clenched her teeth. Then the manager signaled for the house to close and the play to begin. The violinists were gone. She yanked the stupid carpeted doors shut and stomped down the hall.
Why was fate constantly landing her in his presence without allowing her a reason or opportunity for introduction? She would settle for anything, which was pathetic in every meaning of the word. In fact, her picture accompanied its definition in the 2006 edition of the Merriam-Webster pocket dictionary. How is that for an applied example?
Well, she was definitely giving herself all four hours of the shift on her time card. Ha.
Dammit.

Not cooperating

There are those of us who possess the genius of a truly uncooperative attitude.
These are mostly children.

gibberish

So there I was, driving myself home at a quarter to ten on a Friday night. It was crazy how I found myself alone on that long stretch of road; no one blinding me ahead, and no obnoxiously bright lights in the rear view mirror. That beautiful curve of street was empty due to the below zero temp, from folks either sensible enough to take advantage of a warm evening indoors, or too wimpy to brave the cold (good old Minnesota; just when you start to wonder about Global Warming, it reminds you of the good ol' days with an impressive blast of freezing weather.) Either way, for about three minutes it was just me in the car, suddenly impressed by the smooth drive and the faraway hilltop of lit windows. The moon, a day away from full, sent stretching shadows across the road over the treetops and a wide lake divided the highway from its quiet little residential neighborhood.
And then, of course, the short little calming spell was over and an over-cautious idiot blinded me with his brights from behind. Humph. Who needs the sudden jerk back into reality? Not me.

Another thought struck me tonight on that long ride home.
I've decided that I've been looking too hard--every minute, in every place-- for what most of my friends are so self-centered with. I need to stop looking. I need to distract myself with my own life, as it is now. The present is what's important. The past is gone and the future is impossible to predict. I need to be content with concentrating on what's important in the moment, in the day. It sounds cliché, but I need to stop obsessing and get my priorities straight; no more romanticizing. No time.

Oh, for heaven's sake.

If I'm going to stop obsessing, I need to get up the courage. There's only one chance, and it isn't as though I'd lose anything by trying.

I did it myyyyy waaaaaaay

I had a conversation with a friend the other day about "negative attention." Such a thing is only sought after by people so starved for attention and obsessed with being the center of it that they will resort to the kind of spotlight that shines with a cruelly bright light and a hateful audience. Why in the world would someone want to offend people just for the sake of standing out from the crowd? Why would one want to belittle another's personal beliefs just for the sake of differentiating oneself? Does it provide some kind of sick thrill to be looked at as someone who will say whatever they want without any sensitivity to the people around? Cruel, unkind, insensitive, obnoxious, melodramatic, egotistical, idiotic.
Grow a backbone, you say?
Grow a brain.

Rubbish

She first noticed him across the hall once in one of her more reflective moods. She reflected how much he reminded her of one of her favorite singers, a man with a sensitive soul and a voice that could break her heart. (She often reflected what rubbish her reflections were after she reflected on them.) He was quite tall and always walked with a strikingly straight and masculine posture, so that she spotted him the instant he appeared in the room. Unfortunately for her, she lacked the ability to boldly meet a stranger's eyes, especially one whom she was dying to talk to. There was absolutely no excuse for her to walk over and introduce herself, even when they two sat alone at separate tables not a few feet apart. Try as hard as she might, she could not think of any topic of conversation she could strike up with him, just to get his attention, to get him to notice her. She knew his name, and was ashamed of the fact, because she had to research to discover it. She knew he played the violin, as she happened to work at an orchestra concert; she snagged one of the programs on her way out, just to learn who he was. Music major, no doubt. Huh. Too bad she'd given up playing an instrument long ago... five years ago, to be exact. (Thus, she had no reason to visit the music building outside of departmental work, other then as a short cut to the art building on cold mornings.) Still, she was happy with her art. Happier than she could ever be with anything else, despite the way some of her "friends" looked down on her for it. They were "intellectual" because they could constantly and obnoxiously spout facts that no one really cared to hear. Someday she would be a Michaelangelo and paint an inspiration. She'd show 'em. And often she promised herself that her pursuit of art would never be a hobby; never tossed on the back burner to be replaced by family life. If anything, the two could co-exist.
In any case, sadness set in whenever reality did. Life was good, but it wasn't satisfying; it was happy, but not thrilling. When was it going to be wonderful instead of just "fine"?
Good question, she reflected.

words

Elsa of the House

The frost is here. Earlier than I would ever have expected and somehow I feel it reflects the unsettling emotions of the Great House inhabitants.
I was holding out on the first blow of winter and now that it has come I miss the summer air so much.

I have not seen Prince Albir for three days, now.
Perhaps he has fallen through a crack or melted into the walls.

This is such a frustratingly isolated place! The prince's presence here has put the acknowledgement into my mind. I never gave a thought to it before and I've begun to obsess over a way to defeat the lonlieness, especially the kind that creeps in with the wintertime.
Prince Albir is still waiting for news of his mother's death. I wonder sometimes if a miraculous recovery is not possible, since Great House gossip knows nothing of the illness or what caused it. Cook has taken to adding special spices to the prince's tea in a poor attempt to alleviate... or at least to defy monotony. Thera tried to persuade me to visit the prince's room--the brash, insensitive, careless girl. To even think of attempting such a thing without reason or invitation. If I had an excuse, perhaps... still, I feel as though I am on thin ice already. Who knows but I may lose my station here if I continue to act on impulse. If anyone else knew of my behavior, unreasonable suggestions and implications would arise and that would be the end of me. If there's one thing I've learned about bored, uneducated people living in close quarters, it's to expect the absurd.

Lena

remembered a summer lightning storm when she was in middle school. She was wide awake at midnight and bravely made her way down the stairs in her nightgown to sit on the front porch and watch. A burst of lightning flashed, midnight became noon, and Lena was jarred to see that all the things in the mysterious night world were exactly the same as they were in the cheery, prosaic day.
After that she spent a lot of time convincing herself that what you saw, even what you felt, had an unreliable relationship to what was actually there. What was actually there was reality, regardless of whether you saw it or how you felt about it.
But after that she'd started drawing and painting and had to unravel all the convincing she'd done. There was no way to access a visual reality beyond what you saw. Reality was what you saw. "We are trapped in our senses," her old teacher, Annik, told her once. "They are all we have of the world."
And so they are the world, Lena remembered thinking then, and many times since.

Why did she spend so much of her life unlearning? It was so much harder than learning, she mused as she timidly made her way around Leo's canvas.
She was almost afraid to look--scared of its being worse than it was supposed to be but more scared of its being better.
She waited until she was fully in front of his painting to take it on.
After three days in the studio, his painting was really only begun. More suggestion than execution. And yet it was so far beyond hers she felt like crying. Not just because her looked so amateurish in comparison, but also because his had a gesture and a quality, even at this young stage, that was unaccountably sad and lovely.
She was devoting her life to art school, and she knew she could learn a lot of things here, but in a flash of recognition, she also knew that this couldn't be taught. She couldn't say why this painting struck her so, what was the particular insight into the pathos of Nora, but she felt it. And she felt her own set of standards and ambitions swirling down the toilet.
She could practically hear the flush.
She put her fingers to her eyes, unnerved to feel actual wetness. She had hoped those would be conceptual tears, not wet ones.
She thought of Leo. His hair and his hand. She tried to reconcile the look of him with this painting.
And in a rush she felt ashamed of her fatuous games as she realized she was going to be thinking about him whether or when or how he ever looked at her.

From
Forever in Blue: The Fourth Summer of the Sisterhood
by Ann Brashares

Unforgettable

Sing!

More LMNOP

NOLLOPVILLE

Toes, September 19

Ella,

Mr. Warren is here. I wasn't aware that he was so young! Perhaps he only looks young. I chose not to ask his age so as not to embarrass him. Maybe twenty-four. No more than twenty-six, I think.
He is also very attractive. He parts his hair in the center, picking up on the style of the local boys. I can tell he wants to fit in. I can tell that he wishes not to arouse anyone's suspicion.
He is single, as well--at least from what I have been able to learn. He was happy to show me pictures of his mother, his cocker spaniel, even his eight-year-young niece, but no beautiful fiancee, thank heaven!
I'm not sure why I am acting the schoolgirl. Perhaps because it has been so long since we've given welcome to such an interesting visitor. I know what you must be thinking. But I can assure you: the purpose of Nate's visit is not to fall in love with me. Yet in my heart of hearts, I must confess: I simply cannot stop myself from the inevitable "what if"!
He got in last night, by the way.
Have I written that he's witty? Clever to near-fault, it turns out. Not to mention the fact that he speaks with such a mellifluous Savannah-honey-voice that I come close to simply melting away each time he opens his mouth!
I must confess, as well, to being still in the thrall of two full glasses of Sonoma cabernet. I write you--glancing at the clock near my cot-at one in the a.m. Sleepy, I know I ought to be, but I am not!
I must also relate how taken Mother is with our new house-guest. For his part, Mr Warren has been most open to our smile-accompanying, eager-to-please hospitality--reciprocating our courtesies with southern-tangy flattery, in couplet with sweet masculine grace.
He will be staying with us for a week or so before traveling to your neck of the forest to meet with Mr. Lyttle. If I am lucky, his trip to town will concomitate perfectly with my own trip to see my most favorite cousin.
Tomorrow I shall wake, thereupon to wish none of this were put to paper, but by then it will be too late, for this letter is going into the corner mailbox as soon as I can throw on a robe to venture out. What a lovely time we have spent this evening, Sweet Ella, even without the use of the four illegal letters.
(I must own to a slippage on occasion; there was slippage from each of us as the evening wore on, our tongues becoming looser; it was almost impossible not to stumble in light of the intoxicating circumstances. But we were lucky in that when such a misspeak took place, there were no ears pressing themselves against the portals or fenesters to overhear.)
I trust, as always, the safe, nonintercept passage of this letter. For while arguable is the possibility that Nollop speaks to us post-mortem--sans mortem as it were--the only thing that isn't contestable, that rings with pure alloyless truth, is the last thing that left our venerable vocabularian's mouth prior to his expiration: "Love one another, push the perimeter of this glorious language. Lastly, please show proper courtesy; open not your neighbor's mail." (You may recall that this was a rare pet peeve of Mr. Nollop's.)

Love,
Tassie

NOLLOPVILLE

Wetty, September 20

Ella,

I beg you to ignore that last letter. I was in a state of shameful inebriation. Mr. Warren is a nice man. That is all. A nice man. I am near mortification!

Love,

Tassie

From

Ella Minnow Pea

A Novel in Letters

by Mark Dunn

LMNOP

NOLLOPTON, NOLLOP

Montae, Nophemger 13

To the Towgate Phamilee:
Please asept mie hartphelt simpathee at this time. Georgeanne passt awae last night phrom let poisoning. She paintet her whole selph phrom het to toe with manee prettee, ornamental hews. She was so resplentent, almost ratiant in repose--the happee, appealing pigments an aesthetit reminter oph her lophlee warm spirit.
She shoot loog smashing 4 the phooneral.
Her remains shoot arriph shortlee.

With all regrets,
Ella Minnow Pea

From
Ella Minnow Pea
A Novel in Letters
by Mark Dunn

Thurby, Januarious 4

A new year.
So much has been written about new years. Fresh start, hopeful resolutions... lots of optimism. Huh. I call myself an optimist. Are optimists allowed to get angry at pessimists? Is that against the optimists' code of behavior? Hmm. 'Cause sometimes I just wanna slug 'em. Right in the shnoz.
You know what's funny? Songs that have a happy beat, but contain super depressing lyrics. And you only notice it when you actually listen to the words, and then it isn't so fun anymore. And then you hear your roommate listening to the song and you feel it your duty to inform her what the song is really about, and then she's all depressed too. Spread the joy!
It's a really pathetic metaphor for new years. Close off all the depressing crap going on around you and just be happy and hopeful! Listen to the catchy tune but ignore the kill-joy.
I gave up on new years resolutions long ago. Mine are made and broken every day.
Ha.