Pigs in Clover
Scanned, proofed and corrected from the original edition for your reading pleasure. (Worth every penny!)
***
An excerpt from the beginning of:
CHAPTER I.
Constantia met him herself at the station with the ill news. Stephen Hayward was a father, but no longer a husband. Angela's travail had ended; and the dull grey life, for Angela's life had in truth been both dull and grey, had gone out in the agony of her motherhood. She was not formed for joy. Stephen, poor fellow, shocked into silence with the news, news that he read in his sister's face, in the grasp of her hand, in her filled eyes, followed her into the brougham without a question. But she told him, nevertheless, in a few sentences all that had happened. She spared him the medical details. Everything that it was possible to do had been done, the doctor said. Stephen's quick mind took in the situation.
"She was thirty-nine, you know," added Constantia through her tears.
"Have you telegraphed to the Marquis?"
"To everybody."
"She seemed quite well when she left town," he said dully. "I think she has been very happy, dear," she replied soothingly.
Stephen looked at her under his tired eyes. There were tears in Constantia's, and a break in her voice.
"Happy !" he said, "happy. So you think she has been very happy?"
"Yes," Constantia answered hurriedly, laying her hand in his. "I do think she has been happy. She loved you, Steve— she did really, always."
"I know," he said, and then relapsed into silence. He knew.
The brougham rolled on through the flat, bare country, and the brother and sister had no more to say to each other of their dead cousin, of Stephen's wife. The shadow of her lay chill between them as they drove. That she had been "happy" with him was absurd. Constantia knew instinctively that she had touched the wrong note. But it was sad, it was horribly sad, that Angela was dead; she had been in no one's way.
"How did you get on?" she asked presently.
"They listened to me."
Constantia knew he was satisfied.
"And the division?"
"A Government majority of eight."
"That means dissolution," she said quickly.
"Something like it."
Stephen was never voluble; that was all that Constantia could glean from him at the moment. Brother and sister were very silent in the brougham, and both of them thought of Angela, although the political value of Bulgaria to the Fourth Party was so much more vital to them both. They drove silently home along the bare road which had once been a thick avenue of trees, the road that led up to Hadalstone Hall. Stephen hated all the part of his life that lay in and around Hadalstone. Here he had realised to what his father had sunk both name and estate. Here, as a little child, he had heard the word "Disgrace " thundered in his ears, and had seen his mother wither under the lash of it. Here, as a lad, he had returned to that dim, miserable dream, and found it wealed across her wounded heart. This was his patrimony—disgrace, bare mortgaged acres, and a dismantled house. And yet he could not part with it, and yet, when Angela was to bear him a child, it was here it must be born. His pride was rooted in the place.
He turned to Constantia when the Hall was in sight.
"The luck of the place follows it," he said. "I suppose she hated being here?"
"She liked being here. Again and again she said she was glad she was at Hadalstone. You know, Steve," she added beneath her breath, almost in a whisper, "it was here you first met."
She laid her hand upon his arm. He took her hand.
"You are a good soul, Con. You and Angela were always too good for me."
"I am very proud of you, my dear. I have always been proud of you," she answered with simple truth.
He knew his unworthiness of these two good women's love and trust, but intellectual pride and consciousness of strength were perhaps better than the virtues with which they credited him.
"Is the boy all right?" he asked Constantia.
"Boy! What boy? I beg your pardon; my thoughts were wandering. I meant to tell you, it is a girl."
"Good heavens! How like Angela to have a girl."
Then he was silent, perhaps ashamed to have remembered at this moment her characteristic awkwardness. The ten years between the days when as a boy he had made love to her, and the hour when he riveted his claims on the family by leading her to the altar, had developed his knowledge of her. A dull woman, plain, with the respectable ideals of the bourgeoisie.
1030770643
***
An excerpt from the beginning of:
CHAPTER I.
Constantia met him herself at the station with the ill news. Stephen Hayward was a father, but no longer a husband. Angela's travail had ended; and the dull grey life, for Angela's life had in truth been both dull and grey, had gone out in the agony of her motherhood. She was not formed for joy. Stephen, poor fellow, shocked into silence with the news, news that he read in his sister's face, in the grasp of her hand, in her filled eyes, followed her into the brougham without a question. But she told him, nevertheless, in a few sentences all that had happened. She spared him the medical details. Everything that it was possible to do had been done, the doctor said. Stephen's quick mind took in the situation.
"She was thirty-nine, you know," added Constantia through her tears.
"Have you telegraphed to the Marquis?"
"To everybody."
"She seemed quite well when she left town," he said dully. "I think she has been very happy, dear," she replied soothingly.
Stephen looked at her under his tired eyes. There were tears in Constantia's, and a break in her voice.
"Happy !" he said, "happy. So you think she has been very happy?"
"Yes," Constantia answered hurriedly, laying her hand in his. "I do think she has been happy. She loved you, Steve— she did really, always."
"I know," he said, and then relapsed into silence. He knew.
The brougham rolled on through the flat, bare country, and the brother and sister had no more to say to each other of their dead cousin, of Stephen's wife. The shadow of her lay chill between them as they drove. That she had been "happy" with him was absurd. Constantia knew instinctively that she had touched the wrong note. But it was sad, it was horribly sad, that Angela was dead; she had been in no one's way.
"How did you get on?" she asked presently.
"They listened to me."
Constantia knew he was satisfied.
"And the division?"
"A Government majority of eight."
"That means dissolution," she said quickly.
"Something like it."
Stephen was never voluble; that was all that Constantia could glean from him at the moment. Brother and sister were very silent in the brougham, and both of them thought of Angela, although the political value of Bulgaria to the Fourth Party was so much more vital to them both. They drove silently home along the bare road which had once been a thick avenue of trees, the road that led up to Hadalstone Hall. Stephen hated all the part of his life that lay in and around Hadalstone. Here he had realised to what his father had sunk both name and estate. Here, as a little child, he had heard the word "Disgrace " thundered in his ears, and had seen his mother wither under the lash of it. Here, as a lad, he had returned to that dim, miserable dream, and found it wealed across her wounded heart. This was his patrimony—disgrace, bare mortgaged acres, and a dismantled house. And yet he could not part with it, and yet, when Angela was to bear him a child, it was here it must be born. His pride was rooted in the place.
He turned to Constantia when the Hall was in sight.
"The luck of the place follows it," he said. "I suppose she hated being here?"
"She liked being here. Again and again she said she was glad she was at Hadalstone. You know, Steve," she added beneath her breath, almost in a whisper, "it was here you first met."
She laid her hand upon his arm. He took her hand.
"You are a good soul, Con. You and Angela were always too good for me."
"I am very proud of you, my dear. I have always been proud of you," she answered with simple truth.
He knew his unworthiness of these two good women's love and trust, but intellectual pride and consciousness of strength were perhaps better than the virtues with which they credited him.
"Is the boy all right?" he asked Constantia.
"Boy! What boy? I beg your pardon; my thoughts were wandering. I meant to tell you, it is a girl."
"Good heavens! How like Angela to have a girl."
Then he was silent, perhaps ashamed to have remembered at this moment her characteristic awkwardness. The ten years between the days when as a boy he had made love to her, and the hour when he riveted his claims on the family by leading her to the altar, had developed his knowledge of her. A dull woman, plain, with the respectable ideals of the bourgeoisie.
Pigs in Clover
Scanned, proofed and corrected from the original edition for your reading pleasure. (Worth every penny!)
***
An excerpt from the beginning of:
CHAPTER I.
Constantia met him herself at the station with the ill news. Stephen Hayward was a father, but no longer a husband. Angela's travail had ended; and the dull grey life, for Angela's life had in truth been both dull and grey, had gone out in the agony of her motherhood. She was not formed for joy. Stephen, poor fellow, shocked into silence with the news, news that he read in his sister's face, in the grasp of her hand, in her filled eyes, followed her into the brougham without a question. But she told him, nevertheless, in a few sentences all that had happened. She spared him the medical details. Everything that it was possible to do had been done, the doctor said. Stephen's quick mind took in the situation.
"She was thirty-nine, you know," added Constantia through her tears.
"Have you telegraphed to the Marquis?"
"To everybody."
"She seemed quite well when she left town," he said dully. "I think she has been very happy, dear," she replied soothingly.
Stephen looked at her under his tired eyes. There were tears in Constantia's, and a break in her voice.
"Happy !" he said, "happy. So you think she has been very happy?"
"Yes," Constantia answered hurriedly, laying her hand in his. "I do think she has been happy. She loved you, Steve— she did really, always."
"I know," he said, and then relapsed into silence. He knew.
The brougham rolled on through the flat, bare country, and the brother and sister had no more to say to each other of their dead cousin, of Stephen's wife. The shadow of her lay chill between them as they drove. That she had been "happy" with him was absurd. Constantia knew instinctively that she had touched the wrong note. But it was sad, it was horribly sad, that Angela was dead; she had been in no one's way.
"How did you get on?" she asked presently.
"They listened to me."
Constantia knew he was satisfied.
"And the division?"
"A Government majority of eight."
"That means dissolution," she said quickly.
"Something like it."
Stephen was never voluble; that was all that Constantia could glean from him at the moment. Brother and sister were very silent in the brougham, and both of them thought of Angela, although the political value of Bulgaria to the Fourth Party was so much more vital to them both. They drove silently home along the bare road which had once been a thick avenue of trees, the road that led up to Hadalstone Hall. Stephen hated all the part of his life that lay in and around Hadalstone. Here he had realised to what his father had sunk both name and estate. Here, as a little child, he had heard the word "Disgrace " thundered in his ears, and had seen his mother wither under the lash of it. Here, as a lad, he had returned to that dim, miserable dream, and found it wealed across her wounded heart. This was his patrimony—disgrace, bare mortgaged acres, and a dismantled house. And yet he could not part with it, and yet, when Angela was to bear him a child, it was here it must be born. His pride was rooted in the place.
He turned to Constantia when the Hall was in sight.
"The luck of the place follows it," he said. "I suppose she hated being here?"
"She liked being here. Again and again she said she was glad she was at Hadalstone. You know, Steve," she added beneath her breath, almost in a whisper, "it was here you first met."
She laid her hand upon his arm. He took her hand.
"You are a good soul, Con. You and Angela were always too good for me."
"I am very proud of you, my dear. I have always been proud of you," she answered with simple truth.
He knew his unworthiness of these two good women's love and trust, but intellectual pride and consciousness of strength were perhaps better than the virtues with which they credited him.
"Is the boy all right?" he asked Constantia.
"Boy! What boy? I beg your pardon; my thoughts were wandering. I meant to tell you, it is a girl."
"Good heavens! How like Angela to have a girl."
Then he was silent, perhaps ashamed to have remembered at this moment her characteristic awkwardness. The ten years between the days when as a boy he had made love to her, and the hour when he riveted his claims on the family by leading her to the altar, had developed his knowledge of her. A dull woman, plain, with the respectable ideals of the bourgeoisie.
***
An excerpt from the beginning of:
CHAPTER I.
Constantia met him herself at the station with the ill news. Stephen Hayward was a father, but no longer a husband. Angela's travail had ended; and the dull grey life, for Angela's life had in truth been both dull and grey, had gone out in the agony of her motherhood. She was not formed for joy. Stephen, poor fellow, shocked into silence with the news, news that he read in his sister's face, in the grasp of her hand, in her filled eyes, followed her into the brougham without a question. But she told him, nevertheless, in a few sentences all that had happened. She spared him the medical details. Everything that it was possible to do had been done, the doctor said. Stephen's quick mind took in the situation.
"She was thirty-nine, you know," added Constantia through her tears.
"Have you telegraphed to the Marquis?"
"To everybody."
"She seemed quite well when she left town," he said dully. "I think she has been very happy, dear," she replied soothingly.
Stephen looked at her under his tired eyes. There were tears in Constantia's, and a break in her voice.
"Happy !" he said, "happy. So you think she has been very happy?"
"Yes," Constantia answered hurriedly, laying her hand in his. "I do think she has been happy. She loved you, Steve— she did really, always."
"I know," he said, and then relapsed into silence. He knew.
The brougham rolled on through the flat, bare country, and the brother and sister had no more to say to each other of their dead cousin, of Stephen's wife. The shadow of her lay chill between them as they drove. That she had been "happy" with him was absurd. Constantia knew instinctively that she had touched the wrong note. But it was sad, it was horribly sad, that Angela was dead; she had been in no one's way.
"How did you get on?" she asked presently.
"They listened to me."
Constantia knew he was satisfied.
"And the division?"
"A Government majority of eight."
"That means dissolution," she said quickly.
"Something like it."
Stephen was never voluble; that was all that Constantia could glean from him at the moment. Brother and sister were very silent in the brougham, and both of them thought of Angela, although the political value of Bulgaria to the Fourth Party was so much more vital to them both. They drove silently home along the bare road which had once been a thick avenue of trees, the road that led up to Hadalstone Hall. Stephen hated all the part of his life that lay in and around Hadalstone. Here he had realised to what his father had sunk both name and estate. Here, as a little child, he had heard the word "Disgrace " thundered in his ears, and had seen his mother wither under the lash of it. Here, as a lad, he had returned to that dim, miserable dream, and found it wealed across her wounded heart. This was his patrimony—disgrace, bare mortgaged acres, and a dismantled house. And yet he could not part with it, and yet, when Angela was to bear him a child, it was here it must be born. His pride was rooted in the place.
He turned to Constantia when the Hall was in sight.
"The luck of the place follows it," he said. "I suppose she hated being here?"
"She liked being here. Again and again she said she was glad she was at Hadalstone. You know, Steve," she added beneath her breath, almost in a whisper, "it was here you first met."
She laid her hand upon his arm. He took her hand.
"You are a good soul, Con. You and Angela were always too good for me."
"I am very proud of you, my dear. I have always been proud of you," she answered with simple truth.
He knew his unworthiness of these two good women's love and trust, but intellectual pride and consciousness of strength were perhaps better than the virtues with which they credited him.
"Is the boy all right?" he asked Constantia.
"Boy! What boy? I beg your pardon; my thoughts were wandering. I meant to tell you, it is a girl."
"Good heavens! How like Angela to have a girl."
Then he was silent, perhaps ashamed to have remembered at this moment her characteristic awkwardness. The ten years between the days when as a boy he had made love to her, and the hour when he riveted his claims on the family by leading her to the altar, had developed his knowledge of her. A dull woman, plain, with the respectable ideals of the bourgeoisie.
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Pigs in Clover
Pigs in Clover
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940012663368 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | OGB |
| Publication date: | 04/07/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 455 KB |
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