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Updated: June 27, 2025
A trap Westmoreland calls it a car a kind of box on wheels, was approaching the head of the dale from the direction of Whinborough. It stopped at the foot of the steep and narrow lane leading to Burwood, and a young lady got out. "You're sure that's Burwood?" she said, pointing to the house partially visible at the end of the lane. The driver answered in the affirmative. "Where Mrs.
For she was an artist she would be an artist let Catherine say what she would! She came back from Manchester restless for she knew not what, thirsty for the joys and emotions of art, determined to be free, reckless, passionate; with Wagner and Brahms in her young blood; and found Burwood waiting for her, Burwood, the lonely house in the lonely valley, of which Catherine was the presiding genius.
But as usual she was unapproachable about her own affairs, and the state of her mind could only be somewhat dolefully gathered from the fact that she was much less unwilling to go back to Burwood this summer than had ever been known before. Meanwhile, Mr. Flaxman left certain other people in no doubt as to his intentions.
'It seems to me' he said at last dryly, as he opened a gate for her not far from Burwood, 'that you have been making yourself agreeable to a vast number of people. In my new capacity of censor, I should like to warn you that there is nothing so bad for the character as universal popularity. 'I have not got a thousand and one important cousins! she exclaimed, her lip curling.
Do they live near? 'Oh, quite close, cried Mrs. Thornburgh brightening at last, and like a great general, leaving one scheme in ruins, only the more ardently to take up another. 'There is the house, and she pointed out Burwood among its trees. Then with her eye eagerly fixed upon him she fell into a more or less incoherent account of her favorites.
Meanwhile Catherine, hurrying home, the receding flush leaving a sudden pallor behind it, was twisting her hands before her in a kind of agony. 'What have I been doing? she said to herself. 'What have I been doing? At the gate of Burwood something made her look up.
In the morning a trap conveyed him and his bag to the farmhouse at the head of the valley; and the winter sun had only just scattered the mists from the dale when, stick in hand, he found himself on the road to Mrs. Elsmere's little house, Burwood. With every step his jaded spirits rose.
And never had he seemed to bring with him such an atmosphere of cool pleasant strength. 'I have slain so much since the first of July that I can slay no more. I am not like other men. The Nimrod in me is easily gorged, and goes to sleep after a while. So this is Burwood?
'Unbelief, says the orthodox preacher, 'is sin, and implies it: and while he speaks, the saint in the unbeliever gently smiles down his argument; and suddenly, in the rebel of yesterday men see the rightful heir of to-morrow. Meanwhile the Leyburns were at Burwood again.
Judging a North countrywoman by the pusillanimous Southern standard, he found himself glorying in the weather. She could not wander far from him to-day. After the early dinner he escaped, just as the vicar's wife was devising an excuse on which to convey both him and herself to Burwood, and sallied forth with a mackintosh for a rush down the Whinborough road.
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