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Did Steel himself entertain the faintest doubt about the innocence of his wife, whose trial he had heard, and whom he had married thereafter within a few months at the most? Langholm's brain buzzed, even while he listened to what Hugh Woodgate was saying. "I am not surprised," remarked the vicar.
"Then I'll go up alone, Mrs. Brunton, if you won't mind." Severino was lying in a high, square bed, his black locks tossed upon a spotless pillow no whiter than his face; a transparent hand came from under the bedclothes to meet Langholm's outstretched one, but it fell back upon the sick man's breast instead. "Do you forgive me?" he whispered, in a voice both hoarse and hollow.
"Oh, no, I never read novels, unless it be George Eliot, or in these days Mrs. Humphrey Ward. It's such waste of time when there are Browning, Ruskin, and Carlyle to read and read again. I know I shouldn't like Mr. Langholm's; I am sure they are dreadfully uncultured and sensational." "But I like sensation," Rachel said. "I like to be taken out of myself."
And the evening sun, reddening the upper stems of the pines, and warming the mellow tiles of his dear cottage, had no more to say to Langholm's spirit than his beloved roses. The man had emerged from the dreamy, artistic, aesthetic existence into which he had drifted through living alone amid so much simple beauty; he was in real, human, haunting trouble, and the manlier man for it already.
"Then I can only commend him to the sympathy which I know he has already. And I will talk to Mr. Steel while you are gone." The first sentence was almost mechanical. That matter was off Langholm's mind, and in a flash it was fully occupied with the prospect before himself. He lifted the peak of his cap, but, instead of remounting his bicycle, he wheeled it very slowly up the drive.
A detail declared his depression to the woman next door, who was preparing him a more substantial meal than Langholm ever thought of ordering for himself: he went straight through to his roses without changing his party coat for the out-at-elbow Norfolk jacket in which he had spent that summer and the last. The garden behind the two cottages was all Langholm's.
It was all Langholm could do to conceal his eagerness, but in the end he escaped with several orders to view, and the keys of the house of houses in his pocket. No caretaker could be got to live in it; the agent seemed half-surprised at Langholm's readiness to see over it all alone.
It's it's the poor young gentleman " And her apron went to her eyes. "What young gentleman, Mrs. Brunton?" "Him 'at you saw i' London an' sent all this way for change of air! He wasn't fit to travel half the distance. I've been nursing of him all night and all day too." "A young gentleman, and sent by me?" Langholm's face was blank until a harsh light broke over it. "What's his name, Mrs.
Venn agreed with this speaker, some little bitterness in his tone. Another stood up for Langholm. "We should be as dark," said he, "if we had married Gayety choristers, and they had left us, and we went in dread of their return!" They sum up the life tragedies pretty pithily, in these clubs. "He was always a silly ass about women," rejoined Langholm's critic, summing up the man. "So it's Mrs.
The rose-covered cottage of Charles Langholm's dreams, which could not have come true in a more charming particular, stood on a wooded hill at the back of a village some three miles from Normanthorpe. It was one of two cottages under the same tiled roof, and in the other there lived an admirable couple who supplied all material wants of the simple life which the novelist led when at work.
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