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Updated: May 29, 2025
That afternoon the house of Captain Dawe was filled with visitors more or less illustrious. The dignitaries of the forest and the river were assembled in solemn conclave. The scare caused by the first rumours of the Spanish plot was revived in tenfold magnitude. Morgan's wounded arm was a mute witness to the daring and activity of the foe.
"So can I," said Dawe. It was not for an unarrived fictionist to dictate words to be uttered by the heroes and heroines of the Minerva Magazine, contrary to the theories of the editor thereof.
They simply can't do it. If they talk at all on such occasions they draw from the same vocabulary that they use every day, and muddle up their words and ideas a little more, that's all." Did you ever do that and listen to the words of grief and despair as they flowed spontaneously from her lips?" "I never did," said Dawe. "Did you?" "But I can well imagine what she would say."
Johnnie coolly brushed away the tell-tale smudge. "Women always smother a room up on baking-day," he replied. Dorothy came in. "This is Sir Walter's man, who hath a packet for thee. Master Jeffreys, this is Mistress Dawe." Dorothy curtsied, and the messenger bowed. "Never had long journey so pretty and pleasant an ending," he said.
My steed will be rested. Canst give me a guide to Newnham? I want a Captain Dawe." "Ah!" cried Johnnie, all ears in a moment. "The knight hath commissioned me to deliver a letter to a Mistress Dorothy Dawe." "Then I'll get me out of my workday suit and walk to Newnham with thee," exclaimed the farmer.
While the editor is pulling himself out of his surprise, a flashlight biography of Dawe is offered. He was a fiction writer, and one of Westbrook's old acquaintances. At one time they might have called each other old friends. Dawe had some money in those days, and lived in a decent apartment house near Westbrook's. The two families often went to theatres and dinners together. Mrs. Dawe and Mrs.
Why wasn't somebody looking after her, I'd like to know? For God's sake, get out of my way or I'll never get ready. Not that hat the brown one with the velvet bows. Bessie must have been crazy; she's usually shy of strangers. Is that too much powder? Lordy! How I'm upset! "That's the way she'd talk," continued Dawe. "People in real life don't fly into heroics and blank verse at emotional crises.
He loved Mistress Dorothy, and he felt that, if she would only love him, he could be brave and noble; yet he hated the easy-going, simple-hearted Johnnie Morgan, who had made himself a popular idol, and was marked out by the gossips as the fittest and properest husband for pretty Mistress Dawe.
Dawe was mainly concerned about the constituents of the scanty dishes of food that she managed to scrape together. One day Dawe had been spouting to her about the excellencies of certain French writers. At dinner they sat down to a dish that a hungry schoolboy could have encompassed at a gulp. Dawe commented. "It's Maupassant hash," said Mrs. Dawe.
"To MISTRESSE DAWE. Bye ye hande of my trustie manne, Timothie Jeffreys Greetynges to you, faire mistresse, and to youre excellent and honourable sire. "To-daye, a softe wind hath come up from ye west, tempering ye heate and broil of ye towne, and whisperynge to me of cool forest glades and greene paths bye a rushynge river.
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