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I understand he's so shocked that he's bolted out of England" sneeringly. "Well, I'm not. I've come back to ask you to marry me." Ann quivered at his mention of Eliot's name, but with an effort she forced herself to answer him composedly. "I can only give you the same answer as before no, Brett." "Do explain why," he returned irrepressibly. "I don't care tuppence what people say.
People simply speak of the "lake" and the "river" and the "main street," much in the same way as they always call the Continental Hotel, "Pete Robinson's" and the Pharmaceutical Hall, "Eliot's Drug Store." But I suppose this is just the same in every one else's town as in mine, so I need lay no stress on it.
His first notable work, The Ordeal of Richard Feverel, was published in 1859, the same year as George Eliot's Adam Bede; but it was not till the publication of Diana of the Crossways in 1885, that his power as a novelist was widely recognized.
As I am speaking here of novelists, I will not attempt to speak of George Eliot's merit as a poet. There can be no doubt that the most popular novelist of my time probably the most popular English novelist of any time has been Charles Dickens. He has now been dead nearly six years, and the sale of his books goes on as it did during his life.
Madonnas, saints, and such like pictures which fill the churches of Italy and Spain, works of the old masters, are now chiefly prized for their grace of form and richness of coloring, exhibitions of ideal beauty, charming as creations, but not such as we see in real life; George Eliot's novels, on the contrary, are not works of imagination, like the frescos in the Sistine Chapel, but copies of real life, like those of Wilkie and Teniers, which we value for their fidelity to Nature.
I have, too, a personal reason for including him in the series. I knew him well, knew his subjects, and his stage. I have seen him at work at the "Megatherium Club," chatted with him at the "Universe," dined with him at George Eliot's, and even met him in the hunting-field.
But perhaps because there is more attempt at story-telling, more plot the narrative falls below the beautiful, quiet chronicle of the days of Amos: an exquisite portrayal of an average man who yet stands for humanity's best. The tale is significant as a prelude to Eliot's coming work, containing, in the seed, those qualities which were to make her noteworthy.
"I don't mean to; but really your queer ways of accepting Tom's favours exasperate me now and then." "Perhaps I had better go to my own room," said Florence. "I am in your way, am I not?" "When you talk nonsense you are. When you are sensible I delight to have you here. Lie down on the sofa once more, and go on reading this last novel of George Eliot's: it will put some grit into you."
She had never seen him again since the morning when, with an intense feeling of relief, she had watched the Sphinx steam out from Silverquay harbour. Lady Susan was much too incensed against him to invite him to White Windows, and Ann rested fairly secure in the hope that she would never see him again, or, at least, not until she was Eliot's wife.
Spriggins was sent home rejoicing from the fact that he had become insured in the Safety Fund. Phillip Lawson was re-established at his desk, and not wishing to allow his thoughts to wander to the subject which had hitherto occupied them, took up a novel that lay upon the opposite shelf. It was one of George Eliot's masterpieces Daniel Deronda.
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