Sir Charles Danvers E-Book

Mary Cholmondeley

• Herausgeber: Mary Cholmondeley
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

The daughter of the vicar at St. Luke's Church in the village of Hodnet, Mary Cholmondeley spent much of the first thirty years of her life taking care of her sickly mother. Members of her family were involved in the literary world, notably her uncle Reginald Cholmondeley who was a friend of the American novelist, Mark Twain. Growing up, Mary Cholmondeley liked to tell stories to her siblings and turned to writing fiction as an escape from the monotony of her daily routine. Her diary showed that by the age of 18 she was already convinced she would never marry, lacking, she believed, the looks and the charms necessary to attract a suitable mate. Novelist, Rhoda Broughton introduced her to George Bentley of Richard Bentley and Son, prominent London book publishers who had published some of the early works of Charles Dickens. Cholmondeley's first book was published under the title, Her Evil Genius and shortly thereafter in 1886, her second work The Danvers Jewels earned her a small, but respectable following. In 1896 her family moved to the village of Condover temporarily before settling permanently in London where she wrote the 1899 satirical novel, Red Pottage for which she is best remembered. Although shy because of her isolated background, she became friends with some of the well know literary figures of the time and in addition to more than a dozen novels, Cholmondeley wrote essays, articles and short stories.

Leseprobe

Sir Charles Danvers

Mary Cholmondeley

Table of Contents

Chapter 1.

Chapter 2.

Chapter 3.

Chapter 4.

Chapter 5.

Chapter 6.

Chapter 7.

Chapter 8.

Chapter 9.

Chapter 10.

Chapter 11.

Chapter 12.

Chapter 13.

Chapter 14.

Chapter 15.

Chapter 16.

Chapter 17.

Chapter 18.

Chapter 19.

Chapter 20.

Chapter 21.

Chapter 22.

Chapter 23.

Chapter 24.

Chapter 25.

Chapter 26.

Chapter 27.

Chapter 28.

Chapter 29.

Chapter 30.

Chapter 31.

Conclusion.

Chapter 1.

“Dear heart, Miss Ruth, my dear, now don’t ye be a-going yet, and me that hasn’t set eyes on ye this month and more—and as hardly hears a body speak from morning till night.”

“Come, come, Mrs. Eccles, I am always finding people sitting here. I expect to see the latch go every minute.”

“Well, and if they do; and some folks are always a-dropping in, and a-setting theirselves down, and a clack-clacking till a body can’t get a bit of peace! And the things they say! Eh? Miss Ruth, the things I have heard folks say, a setting as it might be there, in poor Eccles his old chair by the chimley, as the Lord took him in.”

To the uninitiated, Mrs. Eccles’s allusion might have seemed to refer to photography. But Ruth knew better; a visitation from the Lord being synonymous in Slumberleigh Parish with a fall from a ladder, a stroke of paralysis, or the midnight cart-wheel that disabled Brown when returning late from the Blue Dragon “not quite hisself.”

“Lor’!” resumed Mrs. Eccles, with an extensive sigh, “there’s a deal of talk in the village now,” glancing inquisitively at the visitor, “about him as succeeds to old Mr. Dare; but I never listen to their tales.”

They made a pleasant contrast to each other, the neat old woman, with her shrewd spectacled eyes and active, hard-worked fingers, and the young girl, tranquil, graceful, sitting in the shadow, with her slender ungloved hands in her lap.

They were not sitting in the front parlor, because Ruth was an old acquaintance; but Mrs. Eccles had a front parlor—a front parlor with the bottled-up smell in it peculiar to front parlors; a parlor with a real mahogany table, on which photograph albums and a few select volumes were symmetrically arranged round an inkstand, nestling in a very choice wool-work mat; a parlor with wax-flowers under glass shades on the mantle-piece, and an avalanche of paper roses and mixed paper herbs in the fireplace.

Ruth knew that sacred apartment well. She knew the name of each of the books; she had expressed a proper admiration for the wax-flowers; she had heard, though she might have forgotten, for she was but young, the price of the “real Brussels” carpet, and so she might safely be permitted to sit in the kitchen, and watch Mrs. Eccles darning her son’s socks.

I am almost afraid Ruth liked the kitchen best, with its tiled floor and patch of afternoon sun; with its tall clock in the corner, its line of straining geraniums in the low window-shelf, and its high mantle-piece crowned by two china dogs with red lozenges on them, holding baskets in their mouths.

“Yes, a deal of talk there is, but nobody rightly seems to know anything for certain,” continued Mrs. Eccles, spreading out her hand in the heel of a fresh sock, and pouncing on a modest hole. “Ye see, we never gave a thought to him, with that great hearty Mr. George, his eldest brother, to succeed when the old gentleman went. And such a fine figure of a man in his clothes as poor Mr. George used to be, and such a favorite with his old uncle. And then to be took like that, horseback riding at polar, only six weeks after the old gentleman. But I can’t hear as anybody’s set eyes on his half-brother as comes in for the property now. He never came to Vandon in his uncle’s lifetime. They say old Mr. Dare couldn’t bide the French madam as his brother took when his first wife died—a foreigner, with black curls; it wasn’t likely. He was always partial to Mr. George, and he took him up when his father died; but he never would have anything to say to this younger one, bein’ nothin’ in the world, so folks say, but half a French, and black, like his mother. I wonder now—” began Mrs. Eccles, tentatively, with her usual love of information.

“I wonder, now,” interposed Ruth, quietly, “how the rheumatism is getting on? I saw you were in church on Sunday evening.”