Tuesday, October 30, 2007
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?
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?
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
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"
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
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.
Monday, October 15, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
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.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Sunday, September 02, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
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."
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:
"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.'"
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.'"
Thursday, August 23, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, August 06, 2007
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.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Words on a page
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.
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.
Monday, July 30, 2007
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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)