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Updated: June 25, 2025
There were undoubtedly strong traces of resemblance; the dreamy and peculiar expression of the poet's face sat, as the transmitted idea, upon the child's, and the hair was of the same hue. 'I'm damned if I didn't think so! murmured Marchmill. 'Then she did play me false with that fellow at the lodgings!
This view of things was rather a bad beginning, as it usually is; and, in fact, six weeks later, in the month of May, she was lying in her room, pulseless and bloodless, with hardly strength enough left to follow up one feeble breath with another, the infant for whose unnecessary life she was slowly parting with her own being fat and well. Just before her death she spoke to Marchmill softly:
He'd just as soon be where, in fact, he's going temporarily, to a little cottage on the Island opposite, for a change. She hoped therefore that they would come. The Marchmill family accordingly took possession of the house next day, and it seemed to suit them very well. After luncheon Mr. Marchmill strolled out towards the pier, and Mrs.
Sorry I can't take you to-day, dear. Mind the children don't go getting drowned. That day Mrs. Marchmill inquired if Mr. Trewe were likely to call at any other time. 'Yes, said Mrs. Hooper. 'He's coming this day week to stay with a friend near here till you leave. He'll be sure to call.
With sad and hopeless envy, Ella Marchmill had often and often scanned the rival poet's work, so much stronger as it always was than her own feeble lines. She had imitated him, and her inability to touch his level would send her into fits of despondency.
He is a poet yes, really a poet and he has a little income of his own, which is enough to write verses on, but not enough for cutting a figure, even if he cared to. 'A poet! O, I did not know that. Mrs. Marchmill opened one of the books, and saw the owner's name written on the title-page. 'Dear me! she continued; 'I know his name very well Robert Trewe of course I do; and his writings!
When William Marchmill had finished his inquiries for lodgings at a well- known watering-place in Upper Wessex, he returned to the hotel to find his wife. She, with the children, had rambled along the shore, and Marchmill followed in the direction indicated by the military-looking hall-porter 'By Jove, how far you've gone!
Her visitor entered the drawing-room. She looked towards his rear; nobody else came through the door. Where, in the name of the God of Love, was Robert Trewe? 'O, I'm sorry, said the painter, after their introductory words had been spoken. 'Trewe is a curious fellow, you know, Mrs. Marchmill. He said he'd come; then he said he couldn't. He's rather dusty.
I am quite out of breath, Marchmill said, rather impatiently, when he came up with his wife, who was reading as she walked, the three children being considerably further ahead with the nurse. Mrs. Marchmill started out of the reverie into which the book had thrown her. 'Yes, she said, 'you've been such a long time. I was tired of staying in that dreary hotel.
Shabby books, of correct rather than rare editions, were piled up in a queerly reserved manner in corners, as if the previous occupant had not conceived the possibility that any incoming person of the season's bringing could care to look inside them. The landlady hovered on the threshold to rectify anything that Mrs. Marchmill might not find to her satisfaction.
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