BokRobot reading edition
Books
FreeSecond Best
D. H. Lawrence
Adapt
"Oh, I'm tired!" Frances exclaimed petulantly, and in the same instant she dropped down on the turf, near the hedge-bottom. Anne stood a moment surprised, then, accustomed to the vagaries of her beloved Frances, said: "Well, aren't you always likely to be tired, after travelling that blessed long way from Liverpool yesterday?" and she plumped down beside her sister. Anne was a wise young girl of fourteen, very buxom, brimming with common sense. Frances was much older, about twenty-three, and whimsical, spasmodic. She was the beauty and the clever child of the family. She plucked the goose-grass buttons from her dress in a nervous, desperate fashion.
Her beautiful profile, looped above with black hair, warm with the dusky-and-scarlet complexion of a pear, was calm as a mask; her thin brown hand plucked nervously.
"It's not the journey," she said, objecting to Anne's obtuseness. Anne looked inquiringly at her darling. The young girl, in her self-confident, practical way, proceeded to reckon up this whimsical creature. But suddenly she found herself full in the eyes of Frances; felt two dark, hectic eyes flaring challenge at her, and she shrank away. Frances was peculiar for these great, exposed looks, which disconcerted people by their violence and their suddenness.
"What's the matter, poor old duck?" asked Anne, as she folded the slight, wilful form of her sister in her arms. Frances laughed shakily, and nestled down for comfort on the budding breasts of the strong girl.
"Oh, I'm only a bit tired," she murmured, on the verge of tears.
"Well, of course you are; what do you expect?" soothed Anne. It was a joke to Frances that Anne should play the elder, almost the mother, to her. But then, Anne was in her untroubled teens; men were like big dogs to her: whereas Frances, at twenty-three, suffered a great deal.
The countryside was intensely still in the morning. On the common, everything shone beside its shadow, and the hillside gave off heat in silence. The brown turf seemed in a low state of combustion; the leaves of the oaks were scorched brown. Among the blackish foliage in the distance shone the small red and orange of the village.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-90ffeac87d49435cb6ba34ed1cb92014
# book_title: Second Best
# chapter_id: 1-second-best
# chapter_title: Second Best
# book_page: 1 / 8
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Oh, I'm tired!" Frances exclaimed petulantly, and in the same instant she dropped down on the turf, near the hedge-bottom. Anne stood a moment surprised, then, accustomed to the vagaries of her beloved Frances, said: "Well, aren't you always likely to be tired, after travelling that blessed long way from Liverpool yesterday?" and she plumped down beside her sister. Anne was a wise young girl of fourteen, very buxom, brimming with common sense. Frances was much older, about twenty-three, and whimsical, spasmodic. She was the beauty and the clever child of the family. She plucked the goose-grass buttons from her dress in a nervous, desperate fashion.
Her beautiful profile, looped above with black hair, warm with the dusky-and-scarlet complexion of a pear, was calm as a mask; her thin brown hand plucked nervously.
"It's not the journey," she said, objecting to Anne's obtuseness. Anne looked inquiringly at her darling. The young girl, in her self-confident, practical way, proceeded to reckon up this whimsical creature. But suddenly she found herself full in the eyes of Frances; felt two dark, hectic eyes flaring challenge at her, and she shrank away. Frances was peculiar for these great, exposed looks, which disconcerted people by their violence and their suddenness.
"What's the matter, poor old duck?" asked Anne, as she folded the slight, wilful form of her sister in her arms. Frances laughed shakily, and nestled down for comfort on the budding breasts of the strong girl.
"Oh, I'm only a bit tired," she murmured, on the verge of tears.
"Well, of course you are; what do you expect?" soothed Anne. It was a joke to Frances that Anne should play the elder, almost the mother, to her. But then, Anne was in her untroubled teens; men were like big dogs to her: whereas Frances, at twenty-three, suffered a great deal.
The countryside was intensely still in the morning. On the common, everything shone beside its shadow, and the hillside gave off heat in silence. The brown turf seemed in a low state of combustion; the leaves of the oaks were scorched brown. Among the blackish foliage in the distance shone the small red and orange of the village.The willows in the brook-course at the foot of the common suddenly shook with a dazzling effect like diamonds. It was a puff of wind. Anne resumed her normal position. She spread her knees, and placed in her lap a handful of hazel nuts, whitish-green leafy things, one side of which was tanned between brown and pink. She began to crack and eat them. Frances, with bowed head, mused bitterly.
"Eh, you know Tom Smedley?" began the young girl, as she pulled a tight kernel out of its shell.
"I suppose so," replied Frances sarcastically.
"Well, he gave me a wild rabbit he'd caught, to keep with my tame one—and it's living."
"That's a good thing," said Frances, very detached and ironic.
"Well, it is! He reckoned he'd take me to Ollerton Feast, but he never did. Look here, he took a servant from the rectory; I saw him."
"So he ought to," said Frances.
"No, he oughtn't! and I told him so. And I told him I'd tell you—and I have done."
Click and snap went a nut between her teeth. She sorted out the kernel, and chewed it complacently.
"It doesn't make much difference," said Frances.
"Well, maybe it doesn't; but I was mad with him all the same."
"Why?"
"Because I was; he has no right to go with a servant."
"He's perfectly right," persisted Frances, very justly and coldly.
"No, he hasn't, when he'd said he'd take me."
Frances burst into a laugh of amusement and relief.
"Oh, no; I'd forgotten that," she said, adding, "And what did he say when you promised to tell me?"
"He laughed and said, 'he won't fret her fat over that.'"
"And she won't," sniffed Frances.
There was silence. The common, with its sere, blonde-headed thistles, its heaps of silent bramble, its brown-husked gorse in the glare of sunshine, seemed visionary. Across the brook began the immense pattern of agriculture: the white chequering of barley stubble, the brown squares of wheat, the khaki patches of pasture, the red stripes of fallow, with the woodland and the tiny village dark like ornaments, leading away to the distance, right to the hills, where the check-pattern grew smaller and smaller, until, in the blackish haze of heat, far off, only the tiny white squares of barley stubble showed distinct.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-90ffeac87d49435cb6ba34ed1cb92014
# book_title: Second Best
# chapter_id: 1-second-best
# chapter_title: Second Best
# book_page: 2 / 8
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The willows in the brook-course at the foot of the common suddenly shook with a dazzling effect like diamonds. It was a puff of wind. Anne resumed her normal position. She spread her knees, and placed in her lap a handful of hazel nuts, whitish-green leafy things, one side of which was tanned between brown and pink. She began to crack and eat them. Frances, with bowed head, mused bitterly.
"Eh, you know Tom Smedley?" began the young girl, as she pulled a tight kernel out of its shell.
"I suppose so," replied Frances sarcastically.
"Well, he gave me a wild rabbit he'd caught, to keep with my tame one—and it's living."
"That's a good thing," said Frances, very detached and ironic.
"Well, it _is!_ He reckoned he'd take me to Ollerton Feast, but he never did. Look here, he took a servant from the rectory; I saw him."
"So he ought to," said Frances.
"No, he oughtn't! and I told him so. And I told him I'd tell you—and I have done."
Click and snap went a nut between her teeth. She sorted out the kernel, and chewed it complacently.
"It doesn't make much difference," said Frances.
"Well, maybe it doesn't; but I was mad with him all the same."
"Why?"
"Because I was; he has no right to go with a servant."
"He's perfectly right," persisted Frances, very justly and coldly.
"No, he hasn't, when he'd said he'd take me."
Frances burst into a laugh of amusement and relief.
"Oh, no; I'd forgotten that," she said, adding, "And what did he say when you promised to tell me?"
"He laughed and said, 'he won't fret her fat over that.'"
"And she won't," sniffed Frances.
There was silence. The common, with its sere, blonde-headed thistles, its heaps of silent bramble, its brown-husked gorse in the glare of sunshine, seemed visionary. Across the brook began the immense pattern of agriculture: the white chequering of barley stubble, the brown squares of wheat, the khaki patches of pasture, the red stripes of fallow, with the woodland and the tiny village dark like ornaments, leading away to the distance, right to the hills, where the check-pattern grew smaller and smaller, until, in the blackish haze of heat, far off, only the tiny white squares of barley stubble showed distinct.
"Eh, I say, here's a rabbit hole!" cried Anne suddenly. "Should we watch if one comes out? You won't have to fidget, you know."
The two girls sat perfectly still. Frances watched certain objects in her surroundings: they had a peculiar, unfriendly look about them: the weight of greenish elderberries on their purpling stalks; the twinkling of the yellowing crab-apples that clustered high up in the hedge, against the sky; the exhausted, limp leaves of the primroses lying flat in the hedge-bottom: all looked strange to her. Then her eyes caught a movement. A mole was moving silently over the warm, red soil, nosing, shuffling hither and thither, flat, and dark as a shadow, shifting about, and as suddenly brisk, and as silent, like a very ghost of joie de vivre. Frances started; out of habit, she was about to call on Anne to kill the little pest. But today, her lethargy of unhappiness was too much for her.
She watched the little brute paddling, sniffing, touching things to discover them, running blindly, delighted to ecstasy by the sunlight and the hot, strange things that caressed its belly and its nose. She felt a keen pity for the little creature.
"Eh, our Fran, look there! It's a mole."
Anne was on her feet, standing watching the dark, unconscious beast. Frances frowned with anxiety.
"It doesn't run off, does it?" said the young girl softly. Then she stealthily approached the creature. The mole paddled clumsily away. In an instant Anne put her foot on it, not too heavily. Frances could see the struggling, swimming movement of the brute's tiny pink hands, the twisting and twitching of its pointed nose, as it wrestled under the sole of the boot.
"It does wriggle!" said the bonny girl, knitting her brows in a frown at the eerie sensation. Then she bent down to look at her trap. Frances could now see, beyond the edge of the boot-sole, the heaving of the velvet shoulders, the pitiful turning of the sightless face, the frantic rowing of the flat, pink hands.
"Kill the thing," she said, turning away her face.
"Oh—I'm not," laughed Anne, shrinking. "You can, if you like."
"I don't like," said Frances, with quiet intensity.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-90ffeac87d49435cb6ba34ed1cb92014
# book_title: Second Best
# chapter_id: 1-second-best
# chapter_title: Second Best
# book_page: 3 / 8
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Eh, I say, here's a rabbit hole!" cried Anne suddenly. "Should we watch if one comes out? You won't have to fidget, you know."
The two girls sat perfectly still. Frances watched certain objects in her surroundings: they had a peculiar, unfriendly look about them: the weight of greenish elderberries on their purpling stalks; the twinkling of the yellowing crab-apples that clustered high up in the hedge, against the sky; the exhausted, limp leaves of the primroses lying flat in the hedge-bottom: all looked strange to her. Then her eyes caught a movement. A mole was moving silently over the warm, red soil, nosing, shuffling hither and thither, flat, and dark as a shadow, shifting about, and as suddenly brisk, and as silent, like a very ghost of _joie de vivre_. Frances started; out of habit, she was about to call on Anne to kill the little pest. But today, her lethargy of unhappiness was too much for her.
She watched the little brute paddling, sniffing, touching things to discover them, running blindly, delighted to ecstasy by the sunlight and the hot, strange things that caressed its belly and its nose. She felt a keen pity for the little creature.
"Eh, our Fran, look there! It's a mole."
Anne was on her feet, standing watching the dark, unconscious beast. Frances frowned with anxiety.
"It doesn't run off, does it?" said the young girl softly. Then she stealthily approached the creature. The mole paddled clumsily away. In an instant Anne put her foot on it, not too heavily. Frances could see the struggling, swimming movement of the brute's tiny pink hands, the twisting and twitching of its pointed nose, as it wrestled under the sole of the boot.
"It _does_ wriggle!" said the bonny girl, knitting her brows in a frown at the eerie sensation. Then she bent down to look at her trap. Frances could now see, beyond the edge of the boot-sole, the heaving of the velvet shoulders, the pitiful turning of the sightless face, the frantic rowing of the flat, pink hands.
"Kill the thing," she said, turning away her face.
"Oh—I'm not," laughed Anne, shrinking. "You can, if you like."
"I _don't_ like," said Frances, with quiet intensity.After several dabbling attempts, Anne succeeded in picking up the little animal by the scruff of its neck. It threw back its head, flung its long blind snout from side to side, its mouth open in a peculiar oblong shape, with tiny pinkish teeth at the edge. The blind, frantic mouth gaped and writhed. The heavy, clumsy body hung there, scarcely moving.
"Isn't it a snappy little thing?" remarked Anne, twisting to avoid the teeth.
"What are you going to do with it?" asked Frances sharply.
"It's got to be killed—look at the damage they do. I'll take it home and let Dad or somebody kill it. I'm not going to let it go."
She clumsily wrapped the creature in her pocket-handkerchief and sat down beside her sister. There was an interval of silence, during which Anne fought against the mole's efforts.
"You haven't had much to say about Jimmy this time. Did you see him often in Liverpool?" Anne asked suddenly.
"Once or twice," replied Frances, giving no sign of how troubled the question made her.
"And aren't you sweet on him any more, then?"
"I should think I'm not, seeing that he's engaged."
"Engaged? Jimmy Barrass! Well, of all things! I never thought he'd get engaged."
"Why not? He's as much right as anyone else," snapped Frances.
Anne was fumbling with the mole.
"Maybe so," she said at length; "but I never thought Jimmy would, though."
"Why not?" snapped Frances. "I don't know—this blessed mole, it won't keep still!—who's he engaged to?"
"How should I know?"
"I thought you'd ask him; you've known him long enough. I'd think he thought he'd get engaged now he's a Doctor of Chemistry."
Frances laughed in spite of herself.
"What's that got to do with it?" she asked.
"I'm sure it's got a lot. He'll want to feel like somebody now, so he's got engaged. Hey, stop it; go in!"
But at this juncture the mole almost succeeded in wriggling free. It struggled and twisted frantically, waving its pointed, blind head; its mouth stood open like a little shaft, its big, wrinkled hands spread out.
"Go in with you!" urged Anne, poking the little creature with her forefinger, trying to get it back into the handkerchief. Suddenly the mouth turned like a spark on her finger.
"Oh!"
she cried, "he's bitten me."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-90ffeac87d49435cb6ba34ed1cb92014
# book_title: Second Best
# chapter_id: 1-second-best
# chapter_title: Second Best
# book_page: 4 / 8
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
After several dabbling attempts, Anne succeeded in picking up the little animal by the scruff of its neck. It threw back its head, flung its long blind snout from side to side, its mouth open in a peculiar oblong shape, with tiny pinkish teeth at the edge. The blind, frantic mouth gaped and writhed. The heavy, clumsy body hung there, scarcely moving.
"Isn't it a snappy little thing?" remarked Anne, twisting to avoid the teeth.
"What are you going to do with it?" asked Frances sharply.
"It's got to be killed—look at the damage they do. I'll take it home and let Dad or somebody kill it. I'm not going to let it go."
She clumsily wrapped the creature in her pocket-handkerchief and sat down beside her sister. There was an interval of silence, during which Anne fought against the mole's efforts.
"You haven't had much to say about Jimmy this time. Did you see him often in Liverpool?" Anne asked suddenly.
"Once or twice," replied Frances, giving no sign of how troubled the question made her.
"And aren't you sweet on him any more, then?"
"I should think I'm not, seeing that he's engaged."
"Engaged? Jimmy Barrass! Well, of all things! I never thought _he'd_ get engaged."
"Why not? He's as much right as anyone else," snapped Frances.
Anne was fumbling with the mole.
"Maybe so," she said at length; "but I never thought Jimmy would, though."
"Why not?" snapped Frances. "_I_ don't know—this blessed mole, it won't keep still!—who's he engaged to?"
"How should I know?"
"I thought you'd ask him; you've known him long enough. I'd think he thought he'd get engaged now he's a Doctor of Chemistry."
Frances laughed in spite of herself.
"What's that got to do with it?" she asked.
"I'm sure it's got a lot. He'll want to feel like _somebody_ now, so he's got engaged. Hey, stop it; go in!"
But at this juncture the mole almost succeeded in wriggling free. It struggled and twisted frantically, waving its pointed, blind head; its mouth stood open like a little shaft, its big, wrinkled hands spread out.
"Go in with you!" urged Anne, poking the little creature with her forefinger, trying to get it back into the handkerchief. Suddenly the mouth turned like a spark on her finger.
"Oh!" she cried, "he's bitten me."She dropped him to the floor. Dazed, the blind creature fumbled around. Frances felt like screaming. She expected him to dart away in a flash, like a mouse, and there he remained, groping; she wanted to cry out to him to be gone. Anne, in a sudden decision of wrath, picked up her sister's walking-cane. With one blow the mole was dead. Frances was startled and shocked. One moment the little wretch was fussing in the heat, and the next it lay like a little bag, inert and black—not a struggle, scarcely a quiver.
"It is dead!" Frances said breathlessly. Anne took her finger from her mouth, looked at the tiny pinpricks, and said: "Yes, he is, and I'm glad. They're vicious little nuisances, moles are."
With that, her wrath vanished. She picked up the dead animal.
"Doesn't it have a beautiful skin," she mused, stroking the fur with her forefinger, then with her cheek.
"Mind," said Frances sharply. "You'll get the blood on your skirt!"
One ruby drop of blood hung on the small snout, ready to fall. Anne shook it off onto some harebell flowers. Frances suddenly became calm; in that moment, grown-up.
"I suppose they have to be killed," she said, and a certain rather dreary indifference succeeded her grief. The twinkling crab-apples, the glitter of brilliant willows now seemed to her trifling, scarcely worth the notice. Something had died inside her, so that things lost their poignancy. She was calm, indifference overlaying her quiet sadness. Rising, she walked down to the brook course.
"Here, wait for me," cried Anne, coming tumbling after.
Frances stood on the bridge, looking at the red mud trodden into pockets by the feet of cattle. There was not a drop of water left, but everything smelled green, succulent. Why did she care so little for Anne, who was so fond of her? she asked herself. Why did she care so little for anyone? She did not know, but she felt a rather stubborn pride in her isolation and indifference.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-90ffeac87d49435cb6ba34ed1cb92014
# book_title: Second Best
# chapter_id: 1-second-best
# chapter_title: Second Best
# book_page: 5 / 8
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
She dropped him to the floor. Dazed, the blind creature fumbled around. Frances felt like screaming. She expected him to dart away in a flash, like a mouse, and there he remained, groping; she wanted to cry out to him to be gone. Anne, in a sudden decision of wrath, picked up her sister's walking-cane. With one blow the mole was dead. Frances was startled and shocked. One moment the little wretch was fussing in the heat, and the next it lay like a little bag, inert and black—not a struggle, scarcely a quiver.
"It is dead!" Frances said breathlessly. Anne took her finger from her mouth, looked at the tiny pinpricks, and said: "Yes, he is, and I'm glad. They're vicious little nuisances, moles are."
With that, her wrath vanished. She picked up the dead animal.
"Doesn't it have a beautiful skin," she mused, stroking the fur with her forefinger, then with her cheek.
"Mind," said Frances sharply. "You'll get the blood on your skirt!"
One ruby drop of blood hung on the small snout, ready to fall. Anne shook it off onto some harebell flowers. Frances suddenly became calm; in that moment, grown-up.
"I suppose they have to be killed," she said, and a certain rather dreary indifference succeeded her grief. The twinkling crab-apples, the glitter of brilliant willows now seemed to her trifling, scarcely worth the notice. Something had died inside her, so that things lost their poignancy. She was calm, indifference overlaying her quiet sadness. Rising, she walked down to the brook course.
"Here, wait for me," cried Anne, coming tumbling after.
Frances stood on the bridge, looking at the red mud trodden into pockets by the feet of cattle. There was not a drop of water left, but everything smelled green, succulent. Why did she care so little for Anne, who was so fond of her? she asked herself. Why did she care so little for anyone? She did not know, but she felt a rather stubborn pride in her isolation and indifference.They entered a field where stooks of barley stood in rows, the straight, blonde tresses of the corn streaming onto the ground. The stubble was bleached by the intense summer, so that the expanse glared white. The next field was sweet and soft with a second crop of seeds; thin, straggling clover whose little pink knobs rested prettily in the dark green. The scent was faint and sickly. The girls came up in single file, Frances leading.
Near the gate, a young man was mowing with the scythe some fodder for the afternoon feed of the cattle. As he saw the girls, he stopped working and waited in an aimless kind of way. Frances was dressed in white muslin, and she walked with dignity, detached and forgetful. Her lack of agitation, her simple, unheeding advance made him nervous. She had loved the distant Jimmy for five years, having received in return only his half-measures. This man affected her only slightly.
Tom was of medium stature, energetic in build. His smooth, fair-skinned face was burned red, not brown, by the sun, and this ruddiness enhanced his appearance of good humour and ease. Being a year older than Frances, he would have courted her long ago had she been so inclined. As it was, he went about his uneventful way amiably, chatting with many a girl, but remaining unattached, free of trouble for the most part. Only he knew that he wanted a woman. He hitched his trousers just a trifle self-consciously as the girls approached. Frances was a rare, delicate kind of being, whom he realized with a queer and delicious stimulation in his veins. She gave him a slight sense of suffocation. Somehow, this morning, she affected him more than usual. She was dressed in white. He, however, being matter-of-fact in his mind, did not realize. His feeling had never become conscious, purposive.
Frances knew what she was about. Tom was ready to love her as soon as she would show him. Now that she could not have Jimmy, she did not poignantly care. Still, she would have something. If she could not have the best—Jimmy, whom she knew to be something of a snob—she would have the second best, Tom. She advanced rather indifferently.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-90ffeac87d49435cb6ba34ed1cb92014
# book_title: Second Best
# chapter_id: 1-second-best
# chapter_title: Second Best
# book_page: 6 / 8
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
They entered a field where stooks of barley stood in rows, the straight, blonde tresses of the corn streaming onto the ground. The stubble was bleached by the intense summer, so that the expanse glared white. The next field was sweet and soft with a second crop of seeds; thin, straggling clover whose little pink knobs rested prettily in the dark green. The scent was faint and sickly. The girls came up in single file, Frances leading.
Near the gate, a young man was mowing with the scythe some fodder for the afternoon feed of the cattle. As he saw the girls, he stopped working and waited in an aimless kind of way. Frances was dressed in white muslin, and she walked with dignity, detached and forgetful. Her lack of agitation, her simple, unheeding advance made him nervous. She had loved the distant Jimmy for five years, having received in return only his half-measures. This man affected her only slightly.
Tom was of medium stature, energetic in build. His smooth, fair-skinned face was burned red, not brown, by the sun, and this ruddiness enhanced his appearance of good humour and ease. Being a year older than Frances, he would have courted her long ago had she been so inclined. As it was, he went about his uneventful way amiably, chatting with many a girl, but remaining unattached, free of trouble for the most part. Only he knew that he wanted a woman. He hitched his trousers just a trifle self-consciously as the girls approached. Frances was a rare, delicate kind of being, whom he realized with a queer and delicious stimulation in his veins. She gave him a slight sense of suffocation. Somehow, this morning, she affected him more than usual. She was dressed in white. He, however, being matter-of-fact in his mind, did not realize. His feeling had never become conscious, purposive.
Frances knew what she was about. Tom was ready to love her as soon as she would show him. Now that she could not have Jimmy, she did not poignantly care. Still, she would have something. If she could not have the best—Jimmy, whom she knew to be something of a snob—she would have the second best, Tom. She advanced rather indifferently."You are back, then!" said Tom. She noticed the touch of uncertainty in his voice.
"No," she laughed, "I'm still in Liverpool," and the undertone of intimacy made him burn.
"This isn't you, then?" he asked.
Her heart leapt up in approval. She looked into his eyes, and for a second was with him.
"Why, what do you think?" she laughed.
He lifted his hat from his head with a distracted little gesture. She liked him, his quaint ways, his humour, his ignorance, and his slow masculinity.
"Here, look here, Tom Smedley," broke in Anne.
"A moudiwarp! Did you find it dead?" he asked.
"No, it bit me," said Anne.
"Oh, aye!" "And that got your rag out, did it?"
"No, it didn't!" Anne scolded sharply. "Such language!"
"Oh, what's up with it?"
"I can't bear you to talk broad."
"Can't you?"
He glanced at Frances.
"It isn't nice," Frances said. She didn't really care. The vulgar speech jarred on her as a rule; Jimmy was a gentleman. But Tom's manner of speech didn't matter to her.
"I like you to talk nicely," she added.
"Do you?" he replied, tilting his hat, stirred.
"And generally you do, you know," she smiled.
"I'll have to give it a try," he said, rather tensely gallant.
"What?" she asked brightly.
"To talk nicely to you," he said. Frances coloured furiously, bowed her head for a moment, then laughed gaily, as if she liked this clumsy hint.
"Eh now, mind what you're saying," cried Anne, giving the young man an admonitory pat.
"You wouldn't have to give that mole many knocks like that," he teased, relieved to get on safe ground, rubbing his arm.
"No indeed, it died in one blow," said Frances, with a flippancy that was hateful to her.
"You're not so good at knocking 'em out?" he said, turning to her.
"I don't know, if I'm cross," she said decisively.
"No?" he replied, with alert attentiveness.
"I could," she added, harder, "if it was necessary."
He was slow to sense her change.
"And don't you consider it is necessary?" he asked, with misgiving.
"W—ell—is it?" she said, looking at him steadily, coldly.
"I reckon it is," he replied, looking away, but standing stubborn.
She laughed quickly.
"But it isn't necessary for me," she said, with slight contempt.
"Yes, that's quite true," he answered.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-90ffeac87d49435cb6ba34ed1cb92014
# book_title: Second Best
# chapter_id: 1-second-best
# chapter_title: Second Best
# book_page: 7 / 8
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"You are back, then!" said Tom. She noticed the touch of uncertainty in his voice.
"No," she laughed, "I'm still in Liverpool," and the undertone of intimacy made him burn.
"This isn't you, then?" he asked.
Her heart leapt up in approval. She looked into his eyes, and for a second was with him.
"Why, what do you think?" she laughed.
He lifted his hat from his head with a distracted little gesture. She liked him, his quaint ways, his humour, his ignorance, and his slow masculinity.
"Here, look here, Tom Smedley," broke in Anne.
"A moudiwarp! Did you find it dead?" he asked.
"No, it bit me," said Anne.
"Oh, aye!" "And that got your rag out, did it?"
"No, it didn't!" Anne scolded sharply. "Such language!"
"Oh, what's up with it?"
"I can't bear you to talk broad."
"Can't you?"
He glanced at Frances.
"It isn't nice," Frances said. She didn't really care. The vulgar speech jarred on her as a rule; Jimmy was a gentleman. But Tom's manner of speech didn't matter to her.
"I like you to talk _nicely_," she added.
"Do you?" he replied, tilting his hat, stirred.
"And generally you _do_, you know," she smiled.
"I'll have to give it a try," he said, rather tensely gallant.
"What?" she asked brightly.
"To talk nicely to you," he said. Frances coloured furiously, bowed her head for a moment, then laughed gaily, as if she liked this clumsy hint.
"Eh now, mind what you're saying," cried Anne, giving the young man an admonitory pat.
"You wouldn't have to give that mole many knocks like that," he teased, relieved to get on safe ground, rubbing his arm.
"No indeed, it died in one blow," said Frances, with a flippancy that was hateful to her.
"You're not so good at knocking 'em out?" he said, turning to her.
"I don't know, if I'm cross," she said decisively.
"No?" he replied, with alert attentiveness.
"I could," she added, harder, "if it was necessary."
He was slow to sense her change.
"And don't you consider it _is_ necessary?" he asked, with misgiving.
"W—ell—is it?" she said, looking at him steadily, coldly.
"I reckon it is," he replied, looking away, but standing stubborn.
She laughed quickly.
"But it isn't necessary for _me_," she said, with slight contempt.
"Yes, that's quite true," he answered.She laughed shakily. "I know it is," she said; and there was an awkward pause.
"Why, would you like me to kill moles then?" she asked tentatively, after a while.
"They do us a lot of damage," he said, standing firm on his own ground, angered.
"Well, I'll see the next time I come across one," she promised defiantly. Their eyes met, and she sank before him, her pride troubled. He felt uneasy, triumphant, and baffled, as if fate had gripped him. She smiled as she departed.
"Well," said Anne, as the sisters went through the wheat stubble; "I don't know what you two have been chatting about, I'm sure."
"Don't you?" laughed Frances significantly.
"No, I don't. But, at any rate, Tom Smedley is, in my opinion, a good deal better than Jimmy, so there—and nicer."
"Perhaps he is," said Frances coldly.
And the next day, after a secret, persistent hunt, she found another mole playing in the heat. She killed it, and in the evening, when Tom came to the gate to smoke his pipe after supper, she brought him the dead creature.
"Here you are then!" she said.
"Did you catch it?" he replied, taking the velvet corpse into his fingers and examining it minutely. This was to hide his trepidation.
"Did you think I couldn't?" she asked, her face very close to his.
"No, I didn't know."
She laughed in his face, a strange little laugh that caught her breath, all agitation, and tears, and recklessness of desire. He looked frightened and upset. She put her hand on his arm.
"Will you go out with me?" he asked, in a difficult, troubled tone.
She turned her face away, with a shaky laugh. The blood surged up within him, strong, overpowering. He resisted it. But it drove him down, and he was carried away. Seeing the winsome, frail nape of her neck, fierce love came over him for her, and tenderness.
"We'll have to tell your mother," he said. And he stood, suffering, resisting his passion for her.
"Yes," she replied, in a lifeless voice. But there was a thrill of pleasure in this death.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-90ffeac87d49435cb6ba34ed1cb92014
# book_title: Second Best
# chapter_id: 1-second-best
# chapter_title: Second Best
# book_page: 8 / 8
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
She laughed shakily. "_I know it is_," she said; and there was an awkward pause.
"Why, would you _like_ me to kill moles then?" she asked tentatively, after a while.
"They do us a lot of damage," he said, standing firm on his own ground, angered.
"Well, I'll see the next time I come across one," she promised defiantly. Their eyes met, and she sank before him, her pride troubled. He felt uneasy, triumphant, and baffled, as if fate had gripped him. She smiled as she departed.
"Well," said Anne, as the sisters went through the wheat stubble; "I don't know what you two have been chatting about, I'm sure."
"Don't you?" laughed Frances significantly.
"No, I don't. But, at any rate, Tom Smedley is, in my opinion, a good deal better than Jimmy, so there—and nicer."
"Perhaps he is," said Frances coldly.
And the next day, after a secret, persistent hunt, she found another mole playing in the heat. She killed it, and in the evening, when Tom came to the gate to smoke his pipe after supper, she brought him the dead creature.
"Here you are then!" she said.
"Did you catch it?" he replied, taking the velvet corpse into his fingers and examining it minutely. This was to hide his trepidation.
"Did you think I couldn't?" she asked, her face very close to his.
"No, I didn't know."
She laughed in his face, a strange little laugh that caught her breath, all agitation, and tears, and recklessness of desire. He looked frightened and upset. She put her hand on his arm.
"Will you go out with me?" he asked, in a difficult, troubled tone.
She turned her face away, with a shaky laugh. The blood surged up within him, strong, overpowering. He resisted it. But it drove him down, and he was carried away. Seeing the winsome, frail nape of her neck, fierce love came over him for her, and tenderness.
"We'll have to tell your mother," he said. And he stood, suffering, resisting his passion for her.
"Yes," she replied, in a lifeless voice. But there was a thrill of pleasure in this death.
BokRobot
BokRobot brings together books and fairy tales to read and explore. Discover a growing collection, or create books and fairy tales of your own.
