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Updated: May 9, 2025
He slept in a little box of a house close by the entrance to the main stable, in which were kept the private horses of several of the officers, and among them Mr. Jerrold's; and it was his boast that, day or night, no horse left that stable without his knowledge.
You'll have the devil of a job." He spoke as though Jerrold had the land already and he was telling him the things he wanted him to remember. They came back up the steep pasture, very slowly, Uncle Robert leaning on Jerrold's arm. They sat down to rest under the beech-trees at the top.
That was the day he had been with Anne, when she had told him that she was going away. He had never been the same since. He had neither slept nor eaten. Maisie had all the pieces of the puzzle loose before her, and at first sight not one of them looked as if it would fit. But this piece under her hand fitted. Jerrold's illness joined on to Anne's going.
Dusk-white face; little tidy nose and mouth; dark hair and eyes like the minnows swimming under the green water. But Jerrold's face was strong; and he had funny eyes that made you keep looking at him. They were blue.
She was wrapped round and round with death and death, nothing but death, and with Jerrold's suffering. When he saw her he suffered again. And as his way had always been to avoid suffering, he avoided Anne. His eyes turned from her if he saw her coming. He spoke to her without looking at her. He tried not to think of her. When he had gone he would try not to remember.
Robert Fielding's death and Jerrold's absence were two griefs that inflamed each other; they came together to make one immense, intolerable wound. And here at Wyck, she couldn't move without coming upon something that touched it and stung it to fresh pain. But Anne was not like Jerrold, to turn from what she loved because it hurt her.
He could not separate himself from his work sufficiently for the purposes of the higher stage. As Johnson says of "Cato," "We pronounce the name of Cato, but we think on Addison," so one may say of any character of Jerrold's, that it suggests and refers us to its author. All the gold has his head on it.
There would have been joy in that if it had been Jerrold's land, if she could have gone on working for Jerrold and with Jerrold. And if she had not been so tired. She was only twenty-nine and Jerrold was only thirty-two. She wondered how many more ploughing times they would have to go through, how many seed times and harvests. And how would they go through them?
Eliot Fielding, for Eliot had taken his degree. And on that to-morrow of Jerrold's Eliot had come. Jerrold told him he was a perfect idiot, rushing down like that, as if Daddy hadn't an hour to live. "You'll simply terrify him," he said. "He hasn't got a chance with all you people grousing and croaking round him."
It was no wonder Jerrold's score had dropped some thirty per cent. His nerve had gone to pieces. Armitage stood and watched him a moment. Then he slowly spoke: "I have no desire to allude to the subject of your conversation with Merrick. It was to put an end to such a thing not to avail myself of any information it might give that I hurried in.
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