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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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!
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,
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