Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖
- Author: Anthony Trollope
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and on, almost till he doesn’t know where it drives him.’ As he said
this in a voice that was quite sepulchral in its tone, he felt some
consolation in the conviction that this mysterious agency could not
affect a man without imbuing him with a certain amount of grandeur, very
uncomfortable, indeed, in its nature, but still having considerable
value as a counterpoise. Pride must bear pain, but pain is recompensed
by pride.
‘She is so strong, Thomas, that she can put up with anything,’ said
Arabella, in a whisper.
‘Strong yes,’ said he, with a shudder ‘she is strong enough.’
‘And as for love—’
‘Don’t talk about it,’ said he, getting up from his chair. ‘Don’t talk
about it. You will drive me frantic.’
‘You know what my feelings are, Thomas; you have always known them.
There has been no change since I was the young thing you first knew
me.’ As she spoke, she just touched his hand with hers; but he did not
seem to notice this, sitting with his elbow on the arm of his chair and
his forehead on his hand. In reply to what she said to him, he merely
shook his head not intending to imply thereby any doubt of the truth of
her assertion. ‘You have now to make up your mind, and to be bold,
Thomas,’ continued Arabella.‘she says that you are a coward; but I know
that you are no coward. I told her so, and she said that I was
interfering. Oh that she should be able to tell me that I interfere
when I defend you!’
‘I must go,’ said Mr Gibson, jumping up from his chair. ‘I must go.
Bella, I cannot stand this any longer. It is too much for me. I will
pray that I may decide aright. God bless you!’ Then he kissed her brow
as she lay in bed, and hurried out of the room.
He had hoped to go from the house without further converse with any of
its inmates; for his mind was disturbed, and he longed to be at rest.
But he was not allowed to escape so easily. Camilla met him at the
dining-room door, and accosted him with a smile. There had been time
for much meditation during the last half hour, and Camilla had
meditated. ‘How do you find her, Thomas?’ she asked.
‘She seems weak, but I believe she is better. I have been reading to
her.’
‘Come in, Thomas will you not? It is bad for us to stand talking on the
stairs. Dear Thomas, don’t let us be so cold to each other.’ He had no
alternative but to put his arm round her waist, and kiss her, thinking,
as he did so, of the mysterious agency which afflicted him. ‘Tell me
that you love me, Thomas,’ she said.
‘Of course I love you.’ The question is not a pleasant one when put by
a lady to a gentleman whose affections towards her are not strong, and
it requires a very good actor to produce an efficient answer.
‘I hope you do, Thomas. It would be sad, indeed, if you did not. You
are not weary of your Camilla are you?’
For a moment there came upon him an idea that he would confess that he
was weary of her, but he found at once that such an effort was beyond
his powers. ‘How can you ask such a question?’ he said.
‘Because you do not come to me.’ Camilla, as she spoke, laid her head
upon his shoulder and wept. ‘And now you have been five minutes with me
and nearly an hour with Bella.’
‘She wanted me to read to her,’ said Mr Gibson, and he hated himself
thoroughly as he said it.
‘And now you want to get away as fast as you can,’ continued Camilla.
‘Because of the morning service,’ said Mr Gibson. This was quite true,
and yet he hated himself again for saying it. As Camilla knew the truth
of the last plea, she was obliged to let him go; but she made him swear
before he went that he loved her dearly. ‘I think it’s all right,’ she
said to herself as he went down the stairs. ‘I don’t think he’d dare
make it wrong. If he does, o-oh!’
Mr Gibson, as he walked into Exeter, endeavoured to justify his own
conduct to himself. There was no moment, he declared to himself, in
which he had not endeavoured to do right. Seeing the manner in which he
had been placed among these two young women, both of whom had fallen in
love with him, how could he have saved himself from vacillation? And by
what untoward chance had it come to pass that he had now learned to
dislike so vigorously, almost to hate, the one with whom he had been
for a moment sufficiently infatuated to think that he loved?
But with all his arguments he did not succeed in justifying to himself
his own conduct, and he hated himself.
OF A QUARTER OF LAMB
Miss Stanbury, looking out of her parlour window, saw Mr Gibson
hurrying towards the cathedral, down the passage which leads from
Southernhay into the Close. ‘He’s just come from Heavitree, I’ll be
bound,’ said Miss Stanbury to Martha, who was behind her.
‘Like enough, ma’am.’
‘Though they do say that the poor fool of a man has become quite sick
of his bargain already.’
‘He’ll have to be sicker yet, ma’am,’ said Martha.
‘They were to have been married last week, and nobody ever knew why it
was put off. It’s my belief he’ll never marry her. And she’ll be served
right, quite right.’
‘He must marry her now, ma’am. She’s been buying things all over
Exeter, as though there was no end of their money.’
‘They haven’t more than enough to keep body and soul together,’ said
Miss Stanbury. ‘I don’t see why I mightn’t have gone to service this
morning, Martha. It’s quite warm now out in the Close.’
‘You’d better wait, ma’am, till the east winds is over. She was at
Puddock’s only the day before yesterday, buying bed-linen, the finest
they had, and that wasn’t good enough.’
‘Psha!’ said Miss Stanbury.
‘As though Mr Gibson hadn’t things of that kind good enough for her,’
said Martha.
Then there was silence in the room for awhile. Miss Stanbury was
standing at one window, and Martha at the other, watching the people as
they passed backwards and forwards, in and out of the Close. Dorothy
had now been away at Nuncombe Putney for some weeks, and her aunt felt
her loneliness with a heavy sense of weakness. Never had she
entertained a companion in the house who had suited her as well as her
niece, Dorothy. Dorothy would always listen to her, would always talk
to her, would always bear with her. Since Dorothy had gone, various
letters had been interchanged between them. Though there had been anger
about Brooke Burgess, there had been no absolute rupture; but Miss
Stanbury had felt that she could not write and beg her niece to come
back to her. She had not sent Dorothy away. Dorothy had chosen to go,
because her aunt had bad an opinion of her own as to what was fitting
for her heir; and as Miss Stanbury would not give up her opinion, she
could not ask her niece to return to her. Such had been her resolution,
sternly expressed to herself a dozen times during these solitary weeks;
but time and solitude had acted upon her, and she longed for the girl’s
presence in the house. ‘Martha,’ she said at last, ‘I think I shall get
you to go over to Nuncombe Putney.’
‘Again, ma’am?’
‘Why not again? It’s not so far, I suppose, that the journey will hurt
you.’
‘I don’t think it’d hurt me, ma’am, only what good will I do?’
‘If you’ll go rightly to work, you may do good. Miss Dorothy was a fool
to go the way she did, a great fool.’
‘She stayed longer than I thought she would, ma’am.’
‘I’m not asking you what you thought. I’ll tell you what. Do you send
Giles to Winslow’s, and tell them to send in early tomorrow a nice
fore-quarter of lamb. Or it wouldn’t hurt you if you went and chose it
yourself.’
‘It wouldn’t hurt me at all, ma’am.’
‘You get it nice, not too small, because meat is meat at the price
things are now; and how they ever see butcher’s meat at all is more
than I can understand.’
‘People as has to be careful, ma’am, makes a little go a long way.’
‘You get it a good size, and take it over in a basket. It won’t hurt
you, done up clean in a napkin.’
‘It won’t hurt me at all, ma’am.’
‘And you give it to Miss Dorothy with my love. Don’t you let ‘em think
I sent it to my sister-in-law.’
‘And is that to be all, ma’am?’
‘How do you mean all?’
‘Because, ma’am, the railway and the carrier would take it quite ready,
and there would be a matter of ten or twelve shillings saved in the
journey.’
‘Whose affair is that?’
‘Not mine, ma’am, of course.’
‘I believe you’re afraid of the trouble, Martha. Or else you don’t like
going because they’re poor.’
‘It ain’t fair, ma’am, of you to say so, that it ain’t. All I ask is, is
that to be all? When I’ve giv’em the lamb, am I just to come away
straight, or am I to say anything? It will look so odd if I’m just to
put down the basket and come away without e’er a word.’
‘Martha!’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You’re a fool.’
‘That’s true, too, ma’am.’
‘It would be like you to go about in that dummy way, wouldn’t it, and you
that was so fond of Miss Dorothy.’
‘I was fond of her, ma’am.’
‘Of course you’ll be talking to her and why not? And if she should say
anything about returning—’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You can say that you know her old aunt wouldn’t wouldn’t refuse to
have her back again. You can put it your own way, you know. You needn’t
make me find words for you.’
‘But she won’t, ma’am.’
‘Won’t what?’
‘Won’t say anything about returning.’
‘Yes, she will, Martha, if you talk to her rightly.’ The servant didn’t
reply for a while, but stood looking out of the window. ‘You might as
well go about the lamb at once, Martha.’
‘So I will, ma’am, when I’ve got it out, all clear.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Why just this, ma’am. May I tell Miss Dolly straight out that you want
her to come back, and that I’ve been sent to say so?’
‘No, Martha.’
‘Then how am I to do it, ma’am?’
‘Do it out of your own head, just as it comes up at the moment.’
‘Out of my own head, ma’am?’
‘Yes just as you feel, you know.’
‘Just as I feel, ma’am?’
‘You understand what I mean, Martha.’
‘I’ll do my best, ma’am, and I can’t say no more. And if you scolds me
afterwards, ma’am why, of course, I must put up with it.’
‘But I won’t scold you, Martha.’
‘Then I’ll go out to Winslow’s about the lamb at once, ma’am.’
‘Very nice, and not
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