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Updated: May 7, 2025
Ingelow lifted you out and carried you up here, and you never woke. I was asleep, too; but he made no ado about rousing me up. You were quite another matter." Mollie blushed. "How soundly I must have slept! What's the hour, I wonder?" "About half past eight." "Is that all? And where is Mr. Ingelow?" "Gone to get his breakfast and send us ours. Hadn't you better wash and comb your hair, Miss Dane?
"But still," said Mollie, solemnly, and disengaging herself, "when I have time to think about it, I am sure I shall hate you like poison. I do now, but I hate divorces more. Oh, Mr. Ingelow! how could you behave so disgracefully?" And then all at once and without the slightest premonitory warning, the young lady broke out crying hysterically, and to do it the better laid her face on Mr.
"Well?" she asked, wonderingly. "'A sop for Cerberus," laughed Hugh Ingelow; "a supper for the dogs. They'll never want another after." "What do you mean?" "The meat is poisoned; there is strychnine enough in these two pieces to kill a dozen dogs. I mean to throw that to them this evening." "But how?" "Over the wall, of course. What's their names? They'll come when I call them."
"No, Mollie the case of the man who loved you so madly, so recklessly, that the thought of your being another's another's whom you did not love drove him to insanity, and to the commission of an insane deed." "And that man was Doctor Oleander." "It was not!" "Mr. Ingelow!" "No, Mollie; never Guy Oleander. He hadn't the pluck. He never cared for you enough." "But he did it twice."
The "Whip-poor-will" takes up its notes of complaint, making us wonder on our way home what "Will" it was that in boyhood maltreated the ancestors of this species of birds, whether William Wordsworth, or William Cowper, or William Shakspeare, so that the feathered descendants keep through all the forests, year after year, demanding for the cruel perpetrator a sound threshing, forgetting the Bryant that praised them and the Tennyson that petted them and the Jean Ingelow who throws them crumbs, in their anxiety to have some one whip poor Will.
"Oh, that will be delightful," replied Bessie, to whom a book was a powerful attraction. She was some time making her selection from the well-filled bookcase, but at last fixed on some poems by Jean Ingelow, and "The Village on the Cliff," by Miss Thackeray. Bessie had read few novels in her life; Dr.
Her first book, A Rhyming Chronicle of Incidents and Feelings, was published in 1850, when she was twenty, and a novel, Allerton and Dreux, in 1851; nine years later her Tales of Orris. But her fame came at thirty-three, when her first full book of Poems was published in 1863. This was dedicated to a much loved brother, George K. Ingelow: The press everywhere gave flattering notices.
When I was a little chap in roundabouts they used to take me to his church every Sunday, and keep me in wriggling torments through a three-hours' sermon. Yes, I know him, to my sorrow." "He is a clergyman, then?" Mollie said, slowly. Mr. Ingelow stared at the odd question. "I have always labored under that impression, Miss Dane, and so does the Reverend Mr. Rashleigh himself, I fancy.
I never was worthy of you. I would be the basest of the base to marry you now. No; what I am to-night I will go to my grave." She stole a glance at Hugh Ingelow, but the sphinx was never more unreadable than he. He caught her glance, however, and calmly spoke. "And now, as Miss Mollie has had a fatiguing journey lately, and as she needs rest, we had better allow her to retire. Good-night."
It seemed as if they were, for, as she looked and listened, in considerable trepidation, the man approached the house in swift, swinging strides. Of course, it was the peddler. Mrs. Sharpe threw up her window and projected her head. "Mr. Ingelow!" "Halloo!" The man halted and looked up. "Where are the dogs?" "In the dogish elysium, I hope. Dead and done for, Sarah.
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