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Updated: May 3, 2025
Clara Durrant procured the stockings, played the sonata, filled the vases, fetched the pudding, left the cards, and when the great invention of paper flowers to swim in finger-bowls was discovered, was one of those who most marvelled at their brief lives. Nor were there wanting poets to celebrate the theme. Edwin Mallett, for example, wrote his verses ending: And read their doom in Chloe's eyes,
Two or three figures crossed the terrace hastily in the dusk. The door opened and shut. Nothing settled or stayed unbroken. Like oars rowing now this side, now that, were the sentences that came now here, now there, from either side of the table. "Oh, Clara, Clara!" exclaimed Mrs. Durrant, and Timothy Durrant adding, "Clara, Clara," Jacob named the shape in yellow gauze Timothy's sister, Clara.
Alas, women lie! But not Clara Durrant. Of all women, Jacob honoured her most. But to sit at a table with bread and butter, with dowagers in velvet, and never say more to Clara Durrant than Benson said to the parrot when old Miss Perry poured out tea, was an insufferable outrage upon the liberties and decencies of human nature or words to that effect. For Jacob said nothing.
"Father," exclaimed William Haydon suddenly, as they neared the barn, "I do' know now but I've thought o' the very one!" "What d'ye mean?" said the old man, startled a little by such vehemence. "'T ain't nobody I feel sure of getting," explained the son, his ardor suddenly cooling. "I had Maria Durrant in my mind Marilla's cousin.
The builders were at work on Little Grange, which FitzGerald predicted he would never live in but would die in. However, he falsified both predictions, for he lived in the house ten years and died in Norfolk. Mr. Durrant was still in default. I doubt if FitzGerald ever got those flowers. They were plants, Posh tells me, which FitzGerald wished to plant out at Little Grange.
"Timothy," she noted. "The silent young man," said Miss Eliot. "Yes, Jacob Flanders," said Mrs. Durrant. "Oh, mother! I didn't recognize you!" exclaimed Clara Durrant, coming from the opposite direction with Elsbeth. "How delicious," she breathed, crushing a verbena leaf. Mrs. Durrant turned and walked away by herself. "Clara!" she called. Clara went to her.
"I am very glad that the Lugger is so well thought of that any one else wants to build from her. For she was your child, you know. "Mr. Durrant has never sent me the plants. I doubt he must have lost some more children. Do not go to him again, if you went before. I daresay I shall be running over to Lowestoft soon. But I am not quite well.
"A shame to spend such a night in the theatre!" said Mrs. Durrant, seeing all the windows of the coachmakers in Long Acre ablaze. "Think of your moors!" said Mr. Wortley to Clara. "Ah! but Clara likes this better," Mrs. Durrant laughed. "I don't know really," said Clara, looking at the blazing windows. She started. She saw Jacob. "Who?" asked Mrs. Durrant sharply, leaning forward.
His Christian name was Ablett, and he was both a fisherman and a yacht hand. Mr. Durrant was a market gardener and fruiterer in Lowestoft, and his sons carry on the same business in three shops in Lowestoft now. One of them remembers FitzGerald as a visitor and "a queer old chap," and that's all he knows about him. I do not think Posh troubled himself much about the accounts.
"That's about as near as I can get to it," Durrant wound up. The next minute is quiet as the grave. "It follows..." said Jacob. Only half a sentence followed; but these half-sentences are like flags set on tops of buildings to the observer of external sights down below.
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