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Updated: May 26, 2025
A fact which Eleanor's aunt recognized almost as soon as Eleanor did; so, with her usual candor, Mrs. Newbolt took occasion to point things out to her niece. She had bidden Eleanor come to dinner, and Eleanor had said she would "if Maurice happened to be going out." "Better come when he's not going out, so he can be at home and amuse Edith!" said Mrs. Newbolt.
In the twentieth century, critics like Mackail and A. C. Bradley and Rhys, poets like Newbolt and Drinkwater and Masefield to say nothing of living poets and critics among our own countrymen have spoken out for poetry with a knowledge, a sympathy and an eloquence unsurpassed in any previous epoch. The direct "Defence of Poetry" may safely be left to such men as these.
He eased up, descending from his heights of severity, and began to address her respectfully in a manner that was little short of apology for what his stern duty compelled him to do. "Now I will ask you, Mrs. Chase, whether your husband and this defendant, Joe Newbolt, ever had words in your hearing?" "Once," Ollie replied. "Do you recall the day?"
Hammer demanded that the court instruct his client regarding his constitutional privileges. Mrs. Newbolt leaned forward and held out her hands in dumb pleading toward her son, imploring him to speak. "If the matter which you are withholding," began the judge in formal speech, "would tend to incriminate you, then you are acting within your constitutional rights in refusing to answer.
She did not know, and in his face there was no answer. Sol Greening was the first witness. He told again to the jury of his neighbors the story which he had gone over a score of times that morning. Mrs. Newbolt nodded when he related what Joe had told him, as if to say there was no doubt about that; Joe had told her the same thing. It was true.
Newbolt, sitting very straight-backed, held her lips tight, for she was impressed with the seriousness of the occasion. Now and then she nodded, as if confirming to herself some foregone conclusion. "Isom had left me in charge of the place, and I didn't want him to come back and find anything gone," Joe explained. "I see," said the coroner in a friendly way. "Then what did you do?"
As Maurice was frequently out, the invitation was sometimes accepted, and it was on one of these occasions that Mrs. Newbolt, spreading out her cards on the green baize of her solitaire table with fat, beringed hands, made her suggestion: "Eleanor, you've aged. I believe you're unhappy?" "No, I'm not! Why should I be?" "Well, I wouldn't blame you if you were," Mrs. Newbolt said.
For a bewildered minute he hesitated. If Mrs. Newbolt should see Jacky, she ... would know! And Edith ... would she suspect? Still he went like a man in a dream. As he got off the car, a block from Lily's door, a glimpse of the far-off end of the route where "Eleanor's meadow" lay, made his purpose still more dreamlike.
He had seen that boy, Joe Newbolt, leap out of the obscurity of his life into the place of heroes, as he would have had his own son do, if he could have kept him by his side and fashioned his life. But that boy was gone; long years ago he had left him, and none had come after him to stand in his place.
Maurice said he would build a seat around the poplar, "... and we'll put a table under it, and paint it green, and have tea there in the afternoon! Skeezics will like that." "Edith looks healthy," said Mrs. Newbolt; "my dear father used to say he liked healthy females. Old-fashioned word females. Well, I'm afraid dear father liked 'em too much.
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