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Ingelow's angry eyes, she took the enraptured old baronet's arm and walked away. "The hoary dotard!" muttered the artist, glaring and grinding his teeth; "the sixty-five-year-old imbecile! It is the first time I ever heard her decline a waltz under the plea of fatigue. She's a heartless coquette, that Mollie Dane, and I am a fool to waste a second thought upon her."
"She told me so herself," cried Miriam, recklessly betraying this, and wringing her hands; "and she went last night, hoping it was you." The momentary expression of rapture had quite faded out of Mr. Ingelow's face by this time, and, leaning against his easel, he was listening with cool attention. But if Miriam could have known how this man's heart was plunging against his ribs!
Tennyson started a fashion for viewing the two excellences as distinct, comparing them, in In Memoriam: Loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thought, and his disciples have continued to speak in this strain. This is the tenor, for instance, of Jean Ingelow's Letters of Life and Morning, in which she exhorts the young poet,
Now was Mr. Ingelow's time, surely, if he cared for Mollie at all; but Mr. Ingelow spoke never a word. He sat in dead silence, looking at the little figure by the window, knowing she was crying quietly, and making no attempt to wipe away those tears by one tender word. The afternoon wore away. As the twilight fell, Mr. Ingelow took his departure, and Mollie went down to Mrs.
And then she goes on to explain her position to "her American friends," for, she says, "I am sure you more than deserve of me some efforts to please you. I seldom have an opportunity of saying how truly I think so." Jean Ingelow's life has been a quiet but busy and earnest one. She was born in the quaint old city of Boston, England, in 1830.
Graham to me at Thornton Loch opened up to Aunt Mary some of my treasures of memory. She asked me to recite "Brother in the Lane," Hood's "Tale of a Trumpet," "Locksley Hall." "The Pied Piper," and Jean Ingelow's "Songs of Seven." She made me promise to go to see her, and find out how much she had to do for her magnificent salary of 30 pounds a year; but she impressed Aunt Mary much. Mrs.
The London press said: "Miss Ingelow's new volume exhibits abundant evidence that time, study, and devotion to her vocation have both elevated and welcomed the powers of the most gifted poetess we possess, now that Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Adelaide Proctor sing no more on earth. Lincolnshire has claims to be considered the Arcadia of England at present, having given birth to Mr.
"From what you say, it is evident she went willingly of her own accord. In such a case, of course, I can do nothing." "She did not go willingly. I am certain she entered that carriage under the impression she was going with you." Mr. Ingelow's sensitive face reddened. He rose and walked to the window. "But since it was not I, who do you suppose it may have been?" "Doctor Oleander." "No!
She seemed to have finished her story for that time, and while it was dawning upon me what she meant, she sang a bit from one of Jean Ingelow's verses: "Will ye step aboard, my dearest, For the high seas lie before us?" and then came over to sit beside me and tell the whole story in a more sensible fashion. "You know that my father has been meaning to go to England in the autumn?
I had a friend ready to help me to the death. I disguised myself like a hero of romance, I decoyed you here, forced you to consent, I married you!" Still mute, still dropping, still averted, still motionless. There was a tremor in Hugh Ingelow's steady voice when he went on.
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