Future The All Chapter Instant Download
Future The All Chapter Instant Download
Future The All Chapter Instant Download
com
Future The
https://ebookgrade.com/product/future-the/
https://ebookgrade.com/product/future-is-asian-the/
ebookgrade.com
https://ebookgrade.com/product/spaces-for-the-future/
ebookgrade.com
https://ebookgrade.com/product/competing-for-the-future/
ebookgrade.com
https://ebookgrade.com/product/future-of-international-law-the/
ebookgrade.com
Future of Pension Management The
https://ebookgrade.com/product/future-of-pension-management-the/
ebookgrade.com
https://ebookgrade.com/product/pulmonary-hypertension-the-present-and-
future/
ebookgrade.com
https://ebookgrade.com/product/future-of-power-1st-edition-the/
ebookgrade.com
https://ebookgrade.com/product/future-of-cross-border-insolvency-the/
ebookgrade.com
Other documents randomly have
different content
and think that once more, at any rate, they will be worth dressing with care.
But the witch keeps her cloak of darkness, her dress embroidered with signs
and planets; that’s better worth looking at. And think, Satan, what a
compliment you pay her, pursuing her soul, lying in wait for it, following it
through all its windings, crafty and patient and secret like a gentleman out
killing tigers. Her soul—when no one else would give a look at her body
even! And they are all so accustomed, so sure of her! They say: “Dear
Lolly! What shall we give her for her birthday this year? Perhaps a hot-
water bottle. Or what about a nice black lace scarf? Or a new workbox? Her
old one is nearly worn out.” But you say: “Come here, my bird! I will give
you the dangerous black night to stretch your wings in, and poisonous
berries to feed on, and a nest made of bones and thorns, perched high up in
danger where no one can climb to it.” That’s why we become witches: to
show our scorn of pretending life’s a safe business, to satisfy our passion
for adventure. It’s not malice, or wickedness—well, perhaps it is
wickedness, for most women love that—but certainly not malice, not
wanting to plague cattle and make horrid children spout up pins and—what
is it?—“blight the genial bed.” Of course, given the power, one may go in
for that sort of thing, either in self-defence, or just out of playfulness. But
it’s a poor twopenny housewifely kind of witchcraft, black magic is, and
white magic is no better. One doesn’t become a witch to run round being
harmful, or to run round being helpful either, a district visitor on a
broomstick. It’s to escape all that—to have a life of one’s own, not an
existence doled out to you by others, charitable refuse of their thoughts, so
many ounces of stale bread of life a day, the workhouse dietary is
scientifically calculated to support life. As for the witches who can only
express themselves by pins and bed-blighting, they have been warped into
that shape by the dismal lives they’ve led. Think of Miss Carloe! She’s a
typical witch, people would say. Really she’s the typical genteel spinster
who’s spent herself being useful to people who didn’t want her. If you’d got
her younger she’d never be like that.’
‘You seem to know a good deal about witches,’ remarked Satan. ‘But
you were going to say what you thought about me.’
She shook her head.
‘Go on,’ he said encouragingly. ‘You have compared me to a knight-
errant. That’s very pretty. I believe you have also compared me to a hunter,
a poaching sort of hunter, prowling through the woods after dark. Not so
flattering to my vanity as the knight-errant, but more accurate, I daresay.’
‘O Satan! Why do you encourage me to talk when you know all my
thoughts?’
‘I encourage you to talk, not that I may know all your thoughts, but that
you may. Go on, Laura. Don’t be foolish. What do you think about me?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘I don’t think I do think. I only
rhapsodise and make comparisons. You’re beyond me, my thought flies off
you like the centrifugal hypothesis. And after this I shall be more at a loss
than ever, for I like you so much, I find you so kind and sympathetic. But it
is obvious that you can’t be merely a benevolent institution. No, I must be
your witch in blindness.’
‘You don’t take warlocks so seriously, I know. But you might find their
point of view illuminating. As it’s a spiritual difficulty, why not consult Mr.
Jones?’
‘Poor Mr. Jones!’ Laura began to laugh. ‘He can’t call his soul his own.’
‘Hush! Have you forgotten that he has sold it to me?’
‘Then why did you mortgage it to Mr. Gurdon? Mr. Jones isn’t even
allowed to attend the Sabbath.’
‘You are a little dense at times. Hasn’t it occurred to you that other
people might share your sophisticated dislike for the Sabbath?’
‘You don’t attend the Sabbath either, if it comes to that.’
‘How do you know? Don’t try to put me in your pocket, Laura. You are
not my only conquest, and I am not a human master to have favourites
among my servants. All are souls that come to my net. I apologise for the
pun, but it is apt.’
She had been rebuked, but she did not feel particularly abashed. It was
true, then, what she had read of the happy relationship between the Devil
and his servants. If Euphan Macalzean had rated him—why, so, at a pinch,
might she. Other things that she had read might also be true, she thought,
things that she had till now been inclined to reject. So easy-going a Master
who had no favourites among his servants might in reality attend the
Sabbath, might unbend enough to eat black-puddings at a picnic without
losing his dignity.
‘That offensive young man at the Sabbath,’ she remarked, ‘I know he
wasn’t you. Who was he?’
‘He’s one of these brilliant young authors,’ replied the Devil. ‘I believe
Titus knows him. He sold me his soul on the condition that once a week he
should be without doubt the most important person at a party.’
‘Why didn’t he sell his soul in order to become a great writer? Then he
could have had the party into the bargain.’
‘He preferred to take a short-cut, you see.’
She didn’t see. But she was too proud to inquire further, especially as
Satan was now smiling at her as if she were a pet lamb.
‘What did Mr. Jones——’
‘That’s enough! You can ask him that yourself, when you take your
lessons in demonology.’
‘Do you suppose for one moment that Mr. Gurdon would let me sit
closeted with Mr. Jones taking lessons in plain needlework even? He would
put his face in at the window and say: “How much longer are them Mothers
to be kept waiting?” or: “I should like to know what your reverence is doing
about that there dung?” or: “I suppose you know that the cowman’s girl
may go off at any minute.” And then he’d take him down to the shrubbery
and scold him. My heart bleeds for the poor old gentleman!’
‘Mr. Jones’—Satan spoke demurely—‘will have his reward in another
life.’
Laura was silent. She gazed at the Maulgrave Folly with what she could
feel to be a pensive expression. But her mind was a blank.
‘A delicate point, you say? Perhaps it is bad taste on my part to jest
about it.’
A midge settled on Laura’s wrist. She smacked at it.
‘Dead!’ said Satan.
The word dropped into her mind like a pebble thrown into a pond. She
had heard it so often, and now she heard it once more. The same waves of
thought circled outwards, waves of startled thought spreading out on all
sides, rocking the shadows of familiar things, blurring the steadfast pictures
of trees and clouds, circling outward one after the other, each wave more
listless, more imperceptible than the last, until the pool was still again.
There might be some questions that even the Devil could not answer.
She turned her eyes to him with their question.
Satan had risen to his feet. He picked up the flag basket and the shears,
and made ready to go.
‘Is it time?’ asked Laura.
He nodded, and smiled.
She got up in her turn, and began to shake the dust off her skirt. Then she
prodded a hole for the bag which had held the apples, and buried it tidily,
smoothing the earth over the hole. This took a little time to do, and when
she looked round for Satan, to say good-bye, he was out of sight.
Seeing that he was gone she sat down again, for she wanted to think him
over. A pleasant conversation, though she had done most of the talking. The
tract of flattened grass at her side showed where he had rested, and there
was the rampion flower he had held in his hand. Grass that has been lain
upon has always a rather popular bank-holidayish look, and even the
Devil’s lair was not exempt from this. It was as though the grass were in
league with him, faithfully playing-up to his pose of being a quite everyday
phenomenon. Not a blade of grass was singed, not a clover-leaf blasted, and
the rampion flower was withering quite naturally; yet he who had sat there
was Satan, the author of all evil, whose thoughts were a darkness, whose
roots went down into the pit. There was no action too mean for him, no
instrument too petty; he would go into a milk-jug to work mischief. And
presently he would emerge, imperturbable, inscrutable, enormous with the
dignity of natural behaviour and untrammelled self-fulfilment.
To be this—a character truly integral, a perpetual flowering of power and
cunning from an undivided will—was enough to constitute the charm and
majesty of the Devil. No cloak of terrors was necessary to enlarge that
stature, and to suppose him capable of speculation or metaphysic would be
like offering to crown him with a few casual straws. Very probably he was
quite stupid. When she had asked him about death he had got up and gone
away, which looked as if he did not know much more about it than she did
herself: indeed, being immortal, it was unlikely that he would know as
much. Instead, his mind brooded immovably over the landscape and over
the natures of men, an unforgetting and unchoosing mind. That, of course—
and she jumped up in her excitement and began to wave her arms—was
why he was the Devil, the enemy of souls. His memory was too long, too
retentive; there was no appeasing its witness, no hoodwinking it with the
present; and that was why at one stage of civilisation people said he was the
embodiment of all evil, and then a little later on that he didn’t exist.
For a moment Laura thought that she had him: and on the next, as
though he had tricked himself out of her grasp, her thoughts were scattered
by the sudden consciousness of a sort of jerk in the atmosphere. The sun
had gone down, sliding abruptly behind the hills. In that case the bus would
have gone too, she might as well hope to catch the one as the other. First
Satan, then the sun and the bus—adieu, mes gens! With affectionate
unconcern she seemed to be waving them farewell, pleased to be left to
herself, left to enter into this new independence acknowledged by their
departure.
The night was at her disposal. She might walk back to Great Mop and
arrive very late: or she might sleep out and not trouble to arrive till to-
morrow. Whichever she did Mrs. Leak would not mind. That was one of the
advantages of dealing with witches; they do not mind if you are a little odd
in your ways, frown if you are late for meals, fret if you are out all night,
pry and commiserate when at length you return. Lovely to be with people
who prefer their thoughts to yours, lovely to live at your own sweet will,
lovely to sleep out all night! She had quite decided, now, to do so. It was an
adventure, she had never done such a thing before, and yet it seemed most
natural. She would not sleep here: Wickendon was too close. But presently,
later on, when she felt inclined to, she would wander off in search of a
suitable dry ditch or an accommodatingly loosened haystack; or wading
through last year’s leaves and this year’s fern she would penetrate into a
wood and burrow herself a bed, Satan going his rounds might come upon
her and smile to see her lying so peaceful and secure in his dangerous
keeping. But he would not disturb her. Why should he? The pursuit was
over, as far as she was concerned. She could sleep where she pleased, a hind
couched in the Devil’s coverts, a witch made free of her Master’s immunity;
while he, wakeful and stealthy, was already out after new game. So he
would not disturb her. A closer darkness upon her slumber, a deeper voice
in the murmuring leaves overhead—that would be all she would know of
his undesiring and unjudging gaze, his satisfied but profoundly indifferent
ownership.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOLLY
WILLOWES ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also
govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most
countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the
United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms
of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying,
performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this
work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes
no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in
any country other than the United States.
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the
method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The
fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark,
but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty
payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on
which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your
periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked
as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information
about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation.”
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.F.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in
paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF
MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of
other ways including checks, online payments and credit card
donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.