The railway station stood in the midst of an apparent solitude, and from its one long platform there was no sign of any human habitation. A stranger, looking around him in passing that way, might well have wondered why a station should be found there at all; nevertheless, the board which figured prominently above the white palings suggested the near presence of three places—Wellsby, Meadhope, and Simonstower—and a glance at a map of the county would have sufficed to show him that three villages of the names there indicated lay hidden amongst the surrounding woods, one to the east and two to the west of the railway.
The railway station stood in the midst of an apparent solitude, and from its one long platform there was no sign of any human habitation.
A stranger, looking around him in passing that way, might well have wondered why a station should be found there at all; nevertheless, the board which figured prominently above the white palings suggested the near presence of three places-Wellsby, Meadhope, and Simonstower-and a glance at a map of the county would have sufficed to show him that three villages of the names there indicated lay hidden amongst the surrounding woods, one to the east and two to the west of the railway. The line was a single one, served by a train which made three out-and-home journeys a day between the market-town of Oakborough and the village of Normanford, stopping on its way at seven intermediate stations, of which Wellsby was the penultimate one. These wayside stations sometimes witnessed arrivals and departures, but there were many occasions on which the train neither took up passengers nor set them down-it was only a considerable traffic in agricultural produce, the extra business of the weekly market-day, and its connection with the main line, that enabled the directors to keep the Oakborough and Normanford Branch open. At each small station they maintained a staff consisting of a collector or station-master, a booking-clerk, and a porter, but the duties of these officials were light, and a good deal of spare time lay at their disposal, and was chiefly used in cultivating patches of garden along the side of the line, or in discussing the news of the neighbourhood.
On a fine April evening of the early eighties the staff of this particular station assembled on the platform at half-past six o'clock in readiness to receive the train{8} (which, save on market-days, was composed of an engine, two carriages, and the guard's van), as it made its last down journey. There were no passengers to go forward towards Normanford, and the porter, according to custom, went out to the end of the platform as the train came into view, and held up his arms as a signal to the driver that he need not stop unless he had reasons of his own for doing so. To this signal the driver responded with two sharp shrieks of his whistle, on hearing which the porter turned away, put his hands in his pockets, and slouched back along the platform.
'Somebody to set down, anyway, Mr. Simmons,' said the booking-clerk with a look at the station-master. 'I wonder who it is-I've only booked one up ticket to-day; James White it was, and he came back by the 2.30, so it isn't him.'
The station-master made no reply, feeling that another moment would answer the question definitely. He walked forward as the train drew up, and amidst the harsh grinding of its wheels threw a greeting to the engine-driver, which he had already given four times that day and would give again as the train went back two hours later. His eyes, straying along the train, caught sight of a hand fumbling at the handle of a third-class compartment, and he hastened to open the door.
'It's you, is it, Mr. Pepperdine?' he said. 'I wondered who was getting out-it's not often that this train brings us a passenger.'
'Two of us this time,' answered the man thus addressed as he quickly descended, nodding and smiling at the station-master and the booking-clerk; 'two of us this time, Mr. Simmons. Ah!' He drew a long breath of air as if the scent of the woods and fields did him good, and then turned to the open door of the carriage, within which stood a boy leisurely attiring himself in an overcoat. 'Come, my lad,' he said good-humouredly, 'the train'll be going on-let's{9} see now, Mr. Simmons, there's a portmanteau, a trunk, and a box in the van-perhaps Jim there'll see they're got out.'
The porter hurried off to the van; as he turned away the boy descended from the train, put his gloved hands in the pockets of his overcoat, and stared about him with a deliberate and critical expression. His glance ran over the station, the creeping plants on the station-master's house, the station-master, and the booking-clerk; his companion, meanwhile, was staring hard at a patch of bright green beyond the fence and smiling with evident enjoyment.
'I'll see that the things are all right,' said the boy suddenly, and strode off to the van. The porter had already brought out a portmanteau and a trunk; he and the guard were now struggling with a larger obstacle in the shape of a packing-case which taxed all their energies.
'It's a heavy 'un, this is!' panted the guard. 'You might be carrying all the treasure of the Bank of England in here, young master.'
'Books,' said the boy laconically. 'They are heavy. Be careful, please-don't let the box drop.'
There was a note in his voice which the men were quick to recognise-the note of command and of full expectancy that his word would rank as law. He stood by, anxious of eye and keenly observant, while the men lowered the packing-case to the platform; behind him stood Mr. Pepperdine, the station-master, and the booking-clerk, mildly interested.
'There!' said the guard. 'We ha'n't given her a single bump. Might ha' been the delicatest chiny, the way we handled it.'
He wiped his brow with a triumphant wave of the hand. The boy, still regarding the case with grave, speculative eyes, put his hand in his pocket, drew forth a shilling, and with a barely perceptible glance at the guard, dropped it in his hand. The man stared, smiled, pocketed the gift, and touched his cap. He{10} waved his green flag vigorously; in another moment the train was rattling away into the shadow of the woods.
Mr. Pepperdine stepped up to the boy's side and gazed at the packing-case.
'It'll never go in my trap, lad,' he said, scratching his chin. 'It's too big and too heavy. We must send a horse and cart for it in the morning.'
'But where shall we leave it?' asked the boy, with evident anxiety.
'We'll put it in the warehouse, young master,' said the porter. 'It'll be all right there. I'll see that no harm comes to it.'
The boy, however, demanded to see the warehouse, and assured himself that it was water-tight and would be locked up. He issued strict mandates to the porter as to his safe-keeping of the packing-case, presented him also with a shilling, and turned away unconcernedly, as if the matter were now settled. Mr. Pepperdine took the porter in hand.
'Jim,' he said, 'my trap's at the Grange; maybe you could put that trunk and portmanteau on a barrow and bring them down in a while? No need to hurry-I shall have a pipe with Mr. Trippett before going on.'
'All right, sir,' answered the porter. 'I'll bring 'em both down in an hour or so.'
'Come on, then, lad,' said Mr. Pepperdine, nodding good-night to the station-master, and leading the way to the gate. 'Eh, but it's good to be back where there's some fresh air! Can you smell it, boy?'
The boy threw up his face, and sniffed the fragrance of the woods. There had been April showers during the afternoon, and the air was sweet and cool: he drew it in with a relish that gratified the countryman at his side.
'Yes,' he answered. 'I smell it-it's beautiful.'
'Ah, so it is!' said Mr. Pepperdine; 'as beautiful as-as-well, as anything. Yes, it is so, my lad.'
The boy looked up and laughed, and Mr. Pepperdine{11} laughed too. He had no idea why he laughed, but it pleased him to do so; it pleased him, too, to hear the boy laugh. But when the boy's face grew grave again Mr. Pepperdine's countenance composed itself and became equally grave and somewhat solicitous. He looked out of his eye-corners at the slim figure walking at his side, and wondered what other folk would think of his companion. 'A nice, smart-looking boy,' said Mr. Pepperdine to himself for the hundredth time; 'nice, gentlemanlike boy, and a credit to anybody.' Mr. Pepperdine felt proud to have such a boy in his company, and prouder still to know that the boy was his nephew and ward.
The boy thus speculated upon was a lad of twelve, somewhat tall for his age, of a slim, well-knit figure, a handsome face, and a confidence of manner and bearing that seemed disproportionate to his years. He walked with easy, natural grace; his movements were lithe and sinuous; the turn of his head, as he looked up at Mr. Pepperdine, or glanced at the overhanging trees in the lane, was smart and alert; it was easy to see that he was naturally quick in action and in perception. His face, which Mr. Pepperdine had studied a good deal during the past week, was of a type which is more often met with in Italy than in England. The forehead was broad and high, and crowned by a mass of thick, blue-black hair that clustered and waved all over the head, and curled into rings at the temples; the brows were straight, dark, and full; the nose and mouth delicately but strongly carved; the chin square and firm; obstinacy, pride, determination, were all there, and already stiffening into permanence. But in this face, so Italian, so full of the promise of passion, there were eyes of an essentially English type, almost violet in colour, gentle, soft, dreamy, shaded by long black lashes, and it was in them that Mr. Pepperdine found the thing he sought for when he looked long and wistfully at his dead sister's son.
Mr. Pepperdine's present scrutiny passed from the{12} boy's face to the boy's clothes. It was not often, he said to himself, that such a well-dressed youngster was seen in those parts. His nephew was clothed in black from head to foot; his hat was surrounded by a mourning-band; a black tie, fashioned into a smart knot, and secured by an antique cameo-pin, encircled his spotless man's collar: every garment was shaped as if its wearer had been the most punctilious man about town; his neat boots shone like mirrors. The boy was a dandy in miniature, and it filled Mr. Pepperdine with a vast amusement to find him so. He chuckled inwardly, and was secretly proud of a youngster who, as he had recently discovered, could walk into a fashionable tailor's and order exactly what he wanted with an evident determination to get it. But Mr. Pepperdine himself was a rustic dandy. Because of the necessities of a recent occasion he was at that moment clad in sober black-his Sunday-and-State-Occasion's suit-but at home he possessed many wonderful things in the way of riding-breeches, greatcoats ornamented with pearl buttons as big as saucers, and sprigged waistcoats which were the despair of the young country bucks, who were forced to admit that Simpson Pepperdine knew a thing or two about the fashion and was a man of style. It was natural, then, Mr. Pepperdine should be pleased to find his nephew a petit-ma?tre-it gratified an eye which was never at any time indisposed to regard the vanities of this world with complaisance.
Mr. Pepperdine, striding along at the boy's side, presented the cheerful aspect of a healthy countryman. He was a tall, well-built man, rosy of face, bright of eye, a little on the wrong side of forty, and rather predisposed to stoutness of figure, but firm and solid in his tread, and as yet destitute of a grey hair. In his sable garments and his high hat-bought a week before in London itself, and of the latest fashionable shape-he looked very distinguished, and no one could have taken him for less than a churchwarden and a large ratepayer. His air of distinction was further improved by the fact{13} that he was in uncommonly good spirits-he had spent a week in London on business of a sorrowful nature, and he was glad to be home again amongst his native woods and fields. He sniffed the air as he walked, and set his feet down as if the soil belonged to him, and his eyes danced with satisfaction.
The boy suddenly uttered a cry of delight, and stopped, pointing down a long vista of the woods. Mr. Pepperdine turned in the direction indicated, and beheld a golden patch of daffodils.
'Daffy-down-dillies,' said Mr. Pepperdine. 'And very pretty too. But just you wait till you see the woods about Simonstower. I always did say that Wellsby woods were nought to our woods-ah, you should see the bluebells! And as for primroses-well, they could stock all Covent Garden market in London town with 'em, and have enough for next day into the bargain, so they could. Very pretty is them daffies, very pretty, but I reckon there's something a deal prettier to be seen in a minute or two, for here's the Grange, and Mrs. Trippett has an uncommon nice way of setting out a tea-table.'
The boy turned from the glowing patch of colour to look at another attractive picture. They had rounded the edge of the wood on their right hand, and now stood gazing at a peculiarly English scene-a green paddock, fenced from the road by neat railings, painted white, at the further end of which, shaded by a belt of tall elms, stood a many-gabled farmhouse, with a flower-garden before its front door and an orchard at its side. The farm-buildings rose a little distance in rear of the house; beyond them was the stackyard, still crowded with wheat and barley stacks; high over everything rose a pigeon-cote, about the weather-vane of which flew countless pigeons. In the paddock were ewes and lambs; cattle and horses looked over the wall of the fold; the soft light of the April evening lay on everything like a benediction.
'Wellsby Grange,' said Mr. Pepperdine, pushing{14} open a wicket-gate in the white fence and motioning the boy to enter. 'The abode of Mr. and Mrs. Trippett, very particular friends of mine. I always leave my trap here when I have occasion to go by train-it would be sent over this morning, and we shall find it all ready for us presently.'
The boy followed his uncle up the path to the side-door of the farmhouse, his eyes taking in every detail of the scene. He was staring about him when the door opened, and revealed a jolly-faced, red-cheeked man with sandy whiskers and very blue eyes, who grinned delightedly at sight of Mr. Pepperdine, and held out a hand of considerable proportions.
'We were just looking out for you,' said he. 'We heard the whistle, and the missis put the kettle on to boil up that minute. Come in, Simpson-come in, my lad-you're heartily welcome. Now then, missis-they're here.'
A stout, motherly-looking woman, with cherry-coloured ribbons in a nodding cap that crowned a head of glossy dark hair, came bustling to the door.
'Come in, come in, Mr. Pepperdine-glad to see you safe back,' said she. 'And this'll be your little nevvy. Come in, love, come in-you must be tired wi' travelling all that way.'
The boy took off his hat with a courtly gesture, and stepped into the big, old-fashioned kitchen. He looked frankly at the farmer and his wife, and the woman, noting his beauty with quick feminine perception, put her arm round his neck and drew him to her.
'Eh, but you're a handsome lad!' she said. 'Come straight into the parlour and sit you down-the tea'll be ready in a minute. What's your name, my dear?'
The boy looked up at her-Mrs. Trippett's memory, at the sight of his eyes, went back to the days of her girlhood.
'My name is Lucian,' he answered.
Mrs. Trippett looked at him again as if she had scarcely heard him reply to her question. She sighed,{15} and with a sudden impetuous tenderness bent down and kissed him warmly on the cheek.
'Off with your coat, my dear,' she said cheerily. 'And if you're cold, sit down by the fire-if it is spring, it's cold enough for fires at night. Now I'll be back in a minute, and your uncle and the master'll be coming-I lay they've gone to look at a poorly horse that we've got just now-and then we'll have tea.'
She bustled from the room, the cherry-coloured ribbons streaming behind her. The boy, left alone, took off his overcoat and gloves, and laid them aside with his hat; then he put his hands in the pockets of his trousers, and examined his new surroundings.
A wealthy businessman is found dead in his study, but conflicting forensic evidence regarding the time and manner of his death raises more questions than it settles. With a sizable estate hanging in the balance and clues indicating foul play, a persistent detective endeavors to unravel the mystery.
Trajectory presents classics of world literature with 21st century features! Our original-text editions include the following visual enhancements to foster a deeper understanding of the work: Word Clouds at the start of each chapter highlight important words. Word, sentence, paragraph counts, and reading time help readers and teachers determine chapter complexity. Co-occurrence graphs depict character-to-character interactions as well character to place interactions. Sentiment indexes identify positive and negative trends in mood within each chapter. Frequency graphs help display the impact this book has had on popular culture since its original date of publication. Use Trajectory analytics to deepen comprehension, to provide a focus for discussions and writing assignments, and to engage new readers with some of the greatest stories ever told."The Moving Picture Girls: Or, First Appearances in Photo Dramas" is part of "The Moving Picture Girls" series. "The Moving Picture Girls" is a series about the adventures of Ruth and Alice DeVere who live with their father who is an actor.
British poet, journalist, and avid amateur historian Joseph Smith Fletcher went on to become one of the foremost figures in the genre of detective fiction in the early to mid-twentieth century. Set in a quiet community in the north of England, The Borough Treasurer is an enjoyable mystery that will keep even the most astute readers guessing.
Trajectory presents classics of world literature with 21st century features! Our original-text editions include the following visual enhancements to foster a deeper understanding of the work: Word Clouds at the start of each chapter highlight important words. Word, sentence, paragraph counts, and reading time help readers and teachers determine chapter complexity. Co-occurrence graphs depict character-to-character interactions as well character to place interactions. Sentiment indexes identify positive and negative trends in mood within each chapter. Frequency graphs help display the impact this book has had on popular culture since its original date of publication. Use Trajectory analytics to deepen comprehension, to provide a focus for discussions and writing assignments, and to engage new readers with some of the greatest stories ever told."The Moving Picture Girls: Or, First Appearances in Photo Dramas" is part of "The Moving Picture Girls" series. "The Moving Picture Girls" is a series about the adventures of Ruth and Alice DeVere who live with their father who is an actor.
A GREAT MURDER MYSTERY!There may be folk in the world to whom the finding of a dead man, lying grim and stark by the roadside, with the blood freshly run from it and making ugly patches of crimson on the grass and the gravel, would be an ordinary thing; but to me that had never seen blood let in violence, except in such matters as a bout of fisticuffs at school, it was the biggest thing that had ever happened, and I stood staring down at the white face as if I should never look at anything else as long as I lived. I remember all about that scene and that moment as freshly now as if the affair had happened last night. The dead man lying in the crushed grass—his arms thrown out helplessly on either side of him—
Trajectory presents classics of world literature with 21st century features! Our original-text editions include the following visual enhancements to foster a deeper understanding of the work: Word Clouds at the start of each chapter highlight important words. Word, sentence, paragraph counts, and reading time help readers and teachers determine chapter complexity. Co-occurrence graphs depict character-to-character interactions as well character to place interactions. Sentiment indexes identify positive and negative trends in mood within each chapter. Frequency graphs help display the impact this book has had on popular culture since its original date of publication. Use Trajectory analytics to deepen comprehension, to provide a focus for discussions and writing assignments, and to engage new readers with some of the greatest stories ever told."The Moving Picture Girls: Or, First Appearances in Photo Dramas" is part of "The Moving Picture Girls" series. "The Moving Picture Girls" is a series about the adventures of Ruth and Alice DeVere who live with their father who is an actor.
In her previous life, Kimberly endured the betrayal of her husband, the cruel machinations of an evil woman, and the endless tyranny of her in-laws. It culminated in the bankruptcy of her family, and ultimately, her death. After being reborn, she resolved to seek retribution against those who had wronged her, and ensure her family's prosperity. To her shock, the most unattainable man from her past suddenly set his sights on her. "You may have overlooked me before, but I shall capture your heart this time around."
A sudden twist of fate connected Helena to a prominent and influential person. To onlookers, she appeared as a naive bimbo. In truth, she was a top-tier specialist, shrouded in layers of hidden identities. Charlie declared, “She’s quite delicate and easily hurt. Cross her, and you’re crossing me.” The elite families, outwitted by Helena's prowess, kept these truths from him. Helena eventually broke free from Charlie, sending him on a frenzied worldwide hunt. To him, she was a bird with dazzling wings, and his goal was to help her reach new heights.
"Never let anyone treat you like shit!" I learned that the hard way. For three years, I lived with my in-laws. They didn't treat me as their son-in-law but as a slave. I put up with everything because of my wife, Yolanda Lambert. She was the light of my life. Unfortunately, my whole world came crashing down the day I caught my wife cheating on me. I have never been so heartbroken. To have my revenge, I revealed my true identity. I was none other than Liam Hoffman—the heir of a family with trillions of dollars in assets! The Lamberts were utterly shocked after the big reveal. They realized what fools they had been for treating me like trash. My wife even knelt down and begged for my forgiveness. What do you think I did? Did I take her back or made her suffer? Find out!
Yelena discovered that she wasn't her parents' biological child. After seeing through their ploy to trade her as a pawn in a business deal, she was sent away to her barren birthplace. There, she stumbled upon her true origins—a lineage of historic opulence. Her real family showered her with love and adoration. In the face of her so-called sister's envy, Yelena conquered every adversity and took her revenge, all while showcasing her talents. She soon caught the attention of the city's most eligible bachelor. He cornered Yelena and pinned her against the wall. “It's time to reveal your true identity, darling.”
She thought she was the love of his life, and he became the love of her life that fateful day she had seen him at the pack's party. Selene Grace was only a replica of Alpha Leo's real mate, and when he spotted her, Leo immediately claimed her as his Luna in order to suppress the rumors of him being mateless. Being unable to conceive turns Selene's marriage into a nightmare, and as if that wasn't enough, Alpha Leo finally reunites with his long time lover and mate, rejecting a pregnant Selene as a result. 5 years later, Selene, a now successful doctor, receives an invitation to the moon shadow pack in order to rid the pack of a deadly disease which has struck it. Will Selene return back to the pack which had caused her so much pain, and what would she do when she realizes that she is mated to the Alpha who had betrayed her in the past?
For ten years, Daniela showered her ex-husband with unwavering devotion, only to discover she was just his biggest joke. Feeling humiliated yet determined, she finally divorced him. Three months later, Daniela returned in grand style. She was now the hidden CEO of a leading brand, a sought-after designer, and a wealthy mining mogul—her success unveiled at her triumphant comeback. Her ex-husband’s entire family rushed over, desperate to beg for forgiveness and plead for another chance. Yet Daniela, now cherished by the famed Mr. Phillips, regarded them with icy disdain. "I’m out of your league."