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The Floating Press - Grant Allen

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190 pages

English

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This enormously popular bestseller highlights all of Canadian-born author Grant Allen's trademark literary gifts. Featuring an indefatigable female detective, What's Bred In the Bone is a fast-paced read that's packed with plot twists that will keep you guessing until the very last page.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 juillet 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776581771
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE
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GRANT ALLEN

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What's Bred In the Bone First published in 1891 Epub ISBN 978-1-77658-177-1 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77658-178-8 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - Elma's Stranger Chapter II - Two's Company Chapter III - Cyril Waring's Brother Chapter IV - Inside the Tunnel Chapter V - Gratitude Chapter VI - Two Strange Meetings Chapter VII - Kelmscott of Tilgate Chapter VIII - Elma Breaks Out Chapter IX - And After? Chapter X - Colonel Kelmscott's Repentance Chapter XI - A Family Jar Chapter XII - In Silence and Tears Chapter XIII - Business First Chapter XIV - Music Hath Power Chapter XV - The Path of Duty Chapter XVI - Struggle and Victory Chapter XVII - Visions of Wealth Chapter XVIII - Gentle Wooer Chapter XIX - Self or Bearer Chapter XX - Montague Nevitt Finesses Chapter XXI - Colonel Kelmscott's Punishment Chapter XXII - Cross Purposes Chapter XXIII - Guy in Luck Chapter XXIV - A Slight Misunderstanding Chapter XXV - Lead Trumps Chapter XXVI - A Chance Meeting Chapter XXVII - Something to Their Advantage Chapter XXVIII - Mistaken Identity Chapter XXIX - Woman's Intuition Chapter XXX - Fresh Discoveries Chapter XXXI - "Golden Joys" Chapter XXXII - A New Departure Chapter XXXIII - Time Flies Chapter XXXIV - A Stroke for Freedom Chapter XXXV - Perils by the Way Chapter XXXVI - Deserted Chapter XXXVII - Aux Armes! Chapter XXXVIII - News from the Cape Chapter XXXIX - A Gleam of Light Chapter XL - The Bolt Falls Chapter XLI - What Judge? Chapter XLII - Unexpected Evidence Chapter XLIII - Sir Gilbert's Temptation Chapter XLIV - At Bay Chapter XLV - All's Well that Ends Well
Chapter I - Elma's Stranger
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It was late when Elma reached the station. Her pony had jibbed onthe way downhill, and the train was just on the point of movingoff as she hurried upon the platform. Old Matthews, the stout andchubby-cheeked station-master, seized her most unceremoniously bythe left arm, and bundled her into a carriage. He had known herfrom a child, so he could venture upon such liberties.
"Second class, miss? Yes, miss. Here y'are. Look sharp, please.Any more goin' on? All right, Tom! Go ahead there!" And lifting hisleft hand, he whistled a shrill signal to the guard to start her.
As for Elma, somewhat hot in the face with the wild rush for herticket, and grasping her uncounted change, pence and all, in herlittle gloved hand, she found herself thrust, hap-hazard, at thevery last moment, into the last compartment of the lastcarriage—alone—with an artist.
Now, you and I, to be sure, most proverbially courteous andintelligent reader, might never have guessed at first sight, fromthe young man's outer aspect, the nature of his occupation. Thegross and clumsy male intellect, which works in accordance withthe stupid laws of inductive logic, has a queer habit of requiringsomething or other, in the way of definite evidence, before itcommits itself offhand to the distinct conclusion. But Elma Cliffordwas a woman; and therefore she knew a more excellent way. HER habitwas, rather to look things once fairly and squarely in the face,and then, with the unerring intuition of her sex, to make up hermind about them firmly, at once and for ever. That's one of themany glorious advantages of being born a woman. You don't need tolearn in order to know. You know instinctively. And yet our girlswant to go to Girton, and train themselves up to be senior wranglers!
Elma Clifford, however, had NOT been to Girton, so, as she stumbledinto her place, she snatched one hurried look at Cyril Wiring'sface, and knew at a glance he was a landscape painter.
Now, this was clever of her, even in a woman, for Cyril Waring,as he fondly imagined, was travelling that line that day disguisedas a stock-broker. In other words, there was none of the brownvelveteen affectation about his easy get-up. He was an artist,to be sure, but he hadn't assiduously and obtrusively dressed hischaracter. Instead of cutting his beard to a Vandyke point, orenduing his body in a Titianesque coat, or wearing on his heada slouched Rembrandt hat, stuck carelessly just a trifle on oneside in artistic disorder, he was habited, for all the world likeanybody else, in the grey tweed suit of the common British tourist,surmounted by the light felt hat (or bowler), to match, of themodern English country gentleman. Even the soft silk necktie of adelicate aesthetic hue that adorned his open throat didn't proclaimhim at once a painter by trade. It showed him merely as a man oftaste, with a decided eye for harmonies of colour.
So when Elma pronounced her fellow-traveller immediately, inher own mind, a landscape artist, she was exercising the familiarfeminine prerogative of jumping, as if by magic, to a correctconclusion. It's a provoking way they have, those inscrutable women,which no mere male human being can ever conceivably fathom.
She was just about to drop down, as propriety demands, into the cornerseat diagonally opposite to—and therefore as far as possible awayfrom—her handsome companion, when the stranger rose, and, witha very flushed face, said, in a hasty, though markedly deferentialand apologetic tone—
"I beg your pardon, but—excuse me for mentioning it—I think you'regoing to sit down upon—ur—pray don't be frightened—a ratherlarge snake of mine."
There was something so comically alarmed in the ring of his tone—asof a naughty schoolboy detected in a piece of mischief—that,propriety to the contrary notwithstanding, Elma couldn't for thelife of her repress a smile. She looked down at the seat where thestranger pointed, and there, sure enough, coiled up in huge folds,with his glossy head in attitude to spring at her, a great bandedsnake lay alert and open-eyed.
"Dear me," Elma cried, drawing back a little in surprise, but notat all in horror, as she felt she ought to do. "A snake! How curious!I hope he's not dangerous."
"Not at all," the young man answered, still in the same half-guiltytone of voice as before. "He's of a poisonous kind, you know; buthis fangs have been extracted. He won't do you any injury. He'sperfectly harmless. Aren't you, Sardanapalus? Eh, eh, my beauty?But I oughtn't to have let him loose in the carriage, of course,"he added, after a short pause. "It's calculated to alarm a nervouspassenger. Only I thought I was alone, and nobody would come in;so I let him out for a bit of a run between the stations. It's sodull for him, poor fellow, being shut up in his box all the timewhen he's travelling."
Elma looked down at the beautiful glossy creature with genuineadmiration. His skin was like enamel; his banded scales shone brightand silvery. She didn't know why, but somehow she felt she wasn'tin the least afraid of him. "I suppose one ought to be repelled atonce by a snake," she said, taking the opposite seat, and keepingher glance fixed firmly upon the reptile's eye; "but then, this issuch a handsome one! I can't say why, but I don't feel afraid ofhim at all as I ought, to do. Every right-minded person detestssnakes, don't they? And yet, how exquisitely flexible and beautifulhe is! Oh, pray don't put him back in his box for me. He's baskingin the sun here. I should be sorry to disturb him."
Cyril Waring looked at her in considerable surprise. He caughtthe creature in his hands as he spoke, and transferred it at onceto a tin box, with a perforated lid, that lay beside him. "Goback, Sardanapalus," he said, in a very musical and pleasant voice,forcing the huge beast into the lair with gentle but masterfulhands. "Go back, and go to sleep, sir. It's time for your nap. ...Oh no, I couldn't think of letting him out any more in the carriageto the annoyance of others. I'm ashamed enough as it is of havingunintentionally alarmed you. But you came in so unexpectedly, yousee, I hadn't time to put my queer pet away; and, when the dooropened, I was afraid he might slip out, or get under the seats, soall I could do was just to soothe him with my hand, and keep himquiet till the door was shut to again."
"Indeed, I wasn't at all afraid of him," Elma answered, slippingher change into her pocket, and looking prettier through her blushthan even her usual self. "On the contrary, I really liked to seehim. He's such a glorious snake! The lights and shades on his backare so glancing and so wonderful! He's a perfect model. Of course,you're painting him."
The stranger started. "I'm painting him—yes, that's true,"he replied, with a look of sudden surprise; "but why 'of course,'please? How on earth could you tell I was an artist even?"
Elma glanced back in his face, and wondered to herself, too.Now she came to think of it, HOW did she know that handsome youngman, with the charming features, and the expressive eyes, and theneatly-cut brown beard, and the attractive manner, was an artistat all, or anything like it? And how did she know the snake washis model? For the life of her, she couldn't have answered thosequestions herself.
"I suppose I just guessed it," she answered, after a short pause,blushing still more deeply at the sudden way she had thus beendragged into conversation with the good-looking stranger. Elma'sskin was dark—a clear and creamy olive-brown complexion, such asone sometimes sees in southern Europe, though rarely in England; andthe effect of the blush through it didn't pass unnoticed by CyrilWaring's artistic eye. He would have given something for the chance