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Updated: September 10, 2025
He only saw other people in relationship to himself. He looked at them through himself. Mrs. Glynde had taken the opportunity of a "cutting out" to mention that she thought a change would do Dora good. During the three months that had elapsed since the announcement of Jem's death, Stagholme had necessarily been a somewhat dull abode.
"I will tell mother," said Dora Glynde, purposely ignoring Arthur Agar, whose name was always dragged sooner or later into every conversation. "Fancy Jem in a helmet, or a turban, with his face blacked! All the same, if I were a man I should be a soldier. When does he go to join his regiment?" "Oh, almost at once." The girl winced, quietly, between herself and the blind-cord.
They seemed singularly anxious to avoid looking at each other. "But that might come, dear; I think it would come." "I know it would not," replied Dora quietly. There was a dreaminess in her voice, as if she were repeating something she had heard or said before. Suddenly Mrs. Glynde rose from her chair, and going towards her daughter, she knelt on the soft carpet, still afraid to look at her face.
"Oh!" replied Mrs. Agar, drawing herself up with a deprecating little laugh, "I did not intend it to be a consultation at all. I happened to be passing, that was all. You see, Mr. Rigg, Mr. Glynde does not know anything about these matters. Clergymen are so stupid." "Seems to be afraid," Mr. Rigg was reflecting behind his pleasant mask, "of the young man coming alive again." Mrs.
Glynde turned with that pathetic yearning movement of a punished dog which waits to be called. But Dora had some of her father's sternness, her father's good British reserve, and she never called. Turning, she walked quietly out of the room. And all the light had gone out of her life. So we write, and so ye read; but do we realise it?
Glynde said nothing; but as she knew the creak of every board in the room overhead she became aware shortly afterwards that the Rector had either diverged slightly from the path of which he was the ordained finger-post, or that he had suddenly taken to keeping his pocket-handkerchiefs in the far corner of the room where the cradle stood.
"Well, you see, you were quite wrong," burst out Mrs. Agar, with a derisive laugh. "For I knew it all along. Arthur told me at the first." Her voice came as a shock to them all. It was harsh and common, the voice of the street-wrangler. "Then," cried Seymour Michael, as sharp as fate, "why did you not tell Miss Glynde?" He raised his arm, pointing one lean dark finger into her face.
"I knew," he hissed, "that the boy would tell you. I counted on it. Why did you not tell Miss Glynde? Come! Tell us why." Mark Ruthine's face was a study. It was the face of a very keen sportsman at the corner of a "drive." In every word he saw twice as much as simple Jem Agar ever suspected. "Well," answered Mrs. Agar, wavering, "because I thought it better not."
"But," he said, "there is, all the same, no time to lose." He passed his hand over his sleek, lifeless hair with a weary look. "Well, dear," said his mother soothingly, "I will see Ellen Glynde to-morrow, and try to make her say something to Dora. A girl's mother has always more influence than her father."
Sister Cecilia tells me that all the great men began in the Indian Service." "Oh! I wonder where they finished. Royal Academy finishing Academy. Regimentals and a gold frame leaning heroically on a mild-looking cannon with battles in the background." "Yes, dear," replied Mrs. Agar, who only half understood Dora Glynde at all times; "it is such a good thing for Jem.
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