Read FICTION books online

Reading books fiction 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.



Fiction genre suitable for people of all ages. Everyone will find something interesting for themselves. Our electronic library is always at your service. Reading online free books without registration. Nowadays ebooks are convenient and efficient. After all, don’t forget: literature exists and develops largely thanks to readers.
The genre of fiction is interesting to read not only by the process of cognition and the desire to empathize with the fate of the hero, this genre is interesting for the ability to rethink one's own life. Of course the reader may accept the author's point of view or disagree with them, but the reader should understand that the author has done a great job and deserves respect. Take a closer look at genre fiction in all its manifestations in our elibrary.



Read books online » Fiction » He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖

Book online «He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖». Author Anthony Trollope



1 ... 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 ... 176
Go to page:
she was quite sure that were she, a woman, the

niece of so kind an aunt, the nurse at the bedside of such an invalid

were she at such a time to consent to talk of love, she would never

deserve to have a lover. And from this resolve she got great comfort.

It would give her an excuse for making no more assured answer at

present, and would enable her to reflect at leisure as to the reply she

would give him, should he ever, by any chance, renew his offer. If he

did not, and probably he would not, then it would have been very well

that he should not have been made the victim of a momentary generosity.

She had complained of the dullness of her life, and that complaint from

her had produced his noble, kind, generous, dear, enthusiastic

benevolence towards her. As she thought of it all, and by degrees she

took great pleasure in thinking of it, her mind bestowed upon him all

manner of eulogies. She could not persuade herself that he really loved

her, and yet she was full at heart of gratitude to him for the

expression of his love. And as for herself, could she love him? We who

are looking on of course know that she loved him; that from this moment

there was nothing belonging to him, down to his shoe-tie, that would

not be dear to her heart and an emblem so tender as to force a tear

from her. He had already become her god, though she did not know it.

She made comparisons between him and Mr Gibson, and tried to convince

herself that the judgment, which was always pronounced very clearly in

Brooke’s favour, came from anything but her heart. And thus through the

long watches of the night she became very happy, feeling but not

knowing that the whole aspect of the world was changed to her by those

few words which her lover had spoken to her. She thought now that it

would be consolation enough to her in future to know that such a man as

Brooke Burgess had once asked her to be the partner of his life, and

that it would be almost ungenerous in her to push her advantage further

and attempt to take him at his word. Besides, there would be obstacles.

Her aunt would dislike such a marriage for him, and he would be bound

to obey her aunt in such a matter. She would not allow herself to think

that she could ever become Brooke’s wife, but nothing could rob her of

the treasure of the offer which he had made her. Then Martha came to

her at five o’clock, and she went to her bed to dream for an hour or

two of Brooke Burgess and her future life.

 

On the next morning she met him at breakfast. She went down stairs

later than usual, not till ten, having hung about her aunt’s room,

thinking that thus she would escape him for the present. She would wait

till he was gone out, and then she would go down. She did wait; but she

could not hear the front door, and then her aunt murmured something

about Brooke’s breakfast. She was told to go down, and she went. But

when on the stairs she slunk back to her own room, and stood there for

awhile, aimless, motionless, not knowing what to do. Then one of the

girls came to her, and told her that Mr Burgess was waiting breakfast

for her. She knew not what excuse to make, and at last descended slowly

to the parlour. She was very happy, but had it been possible for her to

have run away she would have gone.

 

‘Dear Dorothy,’ he said at once. ‘I may call you so, may I not?’

 

‘Oh yes.’

 

‘And you will love me and be my own, own wife?’

 

‘No, Mr Burgess.’

 

‘No?’

 

‘I mean that is to say—’

 

‘Do you love me, Dorothy?’

 

‘Only think how ill Aunt Stanbury is, Mr Burgess; perhaps dying! How

can I have any thought now except about her? It wouldn’t be right would

it?’

 

‘You may say that you love me.’

 

‘Mr Burgess, pray, pray don’t speak of it now. If you do I must go

away.’

 

‘But do you love me?’

 

‘Pray, pray don’t, Mr Burgess!’

 

There was nothing more to be got from her during the whole day than

that. He told her in the evening that as soon as Miss Stanbury was

well, he would come again, that in any case he would come again. She sat

quite still as he said this, with a solemn face but smiling at heart,

laughing at heart, so happy! When she got up to leave him, and was

forced to give him her hand, he seized her in his arms and kissed her.

‘That is very, very wrong,’ she said, sobbing, and then ran to her room

the happiest girl in all Exeter. He was to start early on the following

morning, and she knew that she would not be forced to see him again.

Thinking of him was so much pleasanter than seeing him!

CHAPTER LII

MR OUTHOUSE COMPLAINS THAT IT’S HARD

 

Life had gone on during the winter at St Diddulph’s Parsonage in a

dull, weary, painful manner. There had come a letter in November from

Trevelyan to his wife, saying that as he could trust neither her nor

her uncle with the custody of his child, he should send a person armed

with due legal authority, addressed to Mr Outhouse, for the recovery of

the boy, and desiring that little Louis might be at once surrendered to

the messenger. Then of course there had arisen great trouble in the

house. Both Mrs Trevelyan and Nora Rowley had learned by this time

that, as regarded the master of the house, they were not welcome guests

at St Diddulph’s. When the threat was shewn to Mr Outhouse, he did not

say a word to indicate that the child should be given up. He muttered

something, indeed, about impotent nonsense, which seemed to imply that

the threat could be of no avail; but there was none of that reassurance

to be obtained from him which a positive promise on his part to hold

the bairn against all corners would have given. Mrs Outhouse told her

niece more than once that the child would be given to no messenger

whatever; but even she did not give the assurance with that energy

which the mother would have liked. ‘They shall drag him away from me by

force if they do take him!’ said the mother, gnashing her teeth. Oh, if

her father would but come! For some weeks she did not let the boy out

of her sight; but when no messenger had presented himself by Christmas

time, they all began to believe that the threat had in truth meant

nothing, that it had been part of the ravings of a madman.

 

But the threat had meant something. Early on one morning in January Mr

Outhouse was told that a person in the hall wanted to see him, and Mrs

Trevelyan, who was sitting at breakfast, the child being at the moment

upstairs, started from her seat. The maid described the man as being

‘All as one as a gentleman,’ though she would not go so far as to say

that he was a gentleman in fact. Mr Outhouse slowly rose from his

breakfast, went out to the man in the passage, and bade him follow into

the little closet that was now used as a study. It is needless perhaps

to say that the man was Bozzle.

 

‘I dare say, Mr Houthouse, you don’t know me,’ said Bozzle. Mr

Outhouse, disdaining all complimentary language, said that he certainly

did not. ‘My name, Mr Houthouse, is Samuel Bozzle, and I live at No.

55, Stony Walk, Union Street, Borough. I was in the Force once, but I

work on my own ‘ook now.’

 

‘What do you want with me, Mr Bozzle?’

 

‘It isn’t so much with you, sir, as it is with a lady as is under your

protection; and it isn’t so much with the lady as it is with her

infant.’

 

‘Then you may go away, Mr Bozzle,’ said Mr Outhouse, impatiently. ‘You

may as well go away at once.’

 

‘Will you please read them few lines, sir,’ said Mr Bozzle. ‘They is in

Mr Trewilyan’s handwriting, which will no doubt be familiar characters

leastways to Mrs T., if you don’t know the gent’s fist.’ Mr Outhouse,

after looking at the paper for a minute, and considering deeply what in

this emergency he had better do, did take the paper and read it. The

words ran as follows: ‘I hereby give full authority to Mr Samuel

Bozzle, of 55, Stony Walk, Union Street, Borough, to claim and to

enforce possession of the body of my child, Louis Trevelyan; and I

require that any person whatsoever who may now have the custody of the

said child, whether it be my wife or any of her friends, shall at once

deliver him up to Mr Bozzle on the production of this authority, LOUIS

TREVELYAN.’ It may be explained that before this document had been

written there had been much correspondence on the subject between

Bozzle and his employer. To give the ex-policeman his due, he had not

at first wished to meddle in the matter of the child. He had a wife at

home who expressed an opinion with much vigour that the boy should be

left with its mother, and that he, Bozzle, should he succeed in getting

hold of the child, would not know what to do with it. Bozzle was aware,

moreover, that it was his business to find out facts, and not to

perform actions. But his employer had become very urgent with him. Mr

Bideawhile had positively refused to move in the matter; and Trevelyan,

mad as he was, had felt a disinclination to throw his affairs into the

hands of a certain Mr Skint, of Stamford Street, whom Bozzle had

recommended to him as a lawyer. Trevelyan had hinted, moreover, that if

Bozzle would make the application in person, that application, if not

obeyed, would act with usefulness as a preliminary step for further

personal measures to be taken by himself. He intended to return to

England for the purpose, but he desired that the order for the child’s

rendition should be made at once. Therefore Bozzle had come. He was an

earnest man, and had now worked himself up to a certain degree of

energy in the matter. He was a man loving power, and specially anxious

to enforce obedience from those with whom he came in contact by the

production of the law’s mysterious authority. In his heart he was ever

tapping people on the shoulder, and telling them that they were wanted.

Thus, when he displayed his document to Mr Outhouse, he had taught

himself at least to desire that that document should be obeyed.

 

Mr Outhouse read the paper and turned up his nose at it. ‘You had

better go away,’ said he, as he thrust it back into Bozzle’s hand.

 

‘Of course I shall go away when I have the child.’

 

‘Psha!’ said Mr Outhouse.

 

‘What does that mean, Mr Houthouse? I presume you’ll not dispute the

paternal parent’s legal authority?’

 

‘Go away, sir,’ said Mr Outhouse.

 

‘Go away!’

 

‘Yes out of this house. It’s my belief that you’re a knave.’

 

‘A knave, Mr Houthouse?’

 

‘Yes a knave. No one who was not a knave would lend a hand towards

separating a little child from its mother. I think you are a knave,

1 ... 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 ... 176
Go to page:

Free ebook «He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖» - read online now

Comments (0)

There are no comments yet. You can be the first!
Add a comment