Celeste E-Book

Anthony Hope

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

In "Celeste," Anthony Hope weaves a rich tapestry of romance, adventure, and intrigue set against a backdrop of 19th-century European landscapes. The narrative centers on the titular character, Celeste, who embodies a clash between desire and duty, illuminating the period's societal constraints. Hope's literary style reflects the romanticism of the Victorian era, characterized by vivid imagery and emotional depth, drawing readers into the complexities of human connection and moral dilemmas. The novel not only entertains but also critiques the cultural norms of its time, positioning it as a significant work within the context of both adventure and romantic fiction. Anthony Hope, an English novelist and playwright, gained fame for his earlier work, "The Prisoner of Zenda," which established him as a master of the romantic adventure genre. His deep understanding of the intricacies of love and nobility is evident in "Celeste," wherein he channels personal sentiments and societal observations into a compelling narrative. Hope's experiences and background in London'Äôs theatrical and literary circles influenced his ability to craft engaging stories that resonate with universal themes. Recommended for readers who appreciate intricate plots interwoven with deep emotional exploration, "Celeste" is a remarkable addition to the canon of classic literature. Hope's deft storytelling and character development invite readers on a journey that resonates long after the final page is turned, making it a must-read for aficionados of romantic fiction.

Leseprobe

Anthony Hope

Celeste

Published by Good Press, 2022

[email protected]

EAN 4064066425326

Table of Contents

II.

III.

IV.

By Anthony Hope(Author of "The Prisoner of Zenda," "Dolly Dialogues," etc.)

MRS. NETTLETON, being of a cheerful disposition, limited her case against life to a mild complaint that it was not as amusing as it might be; it was not a tragedy to her but a comedy; only the comedy was apt to flag. Even this murmur she uttered shamefacedly, since she was aware that she herself had rather handicapped life by marrying Mr. Nettleton. Yet, though Mr. Nettleton had been dead now three years, life had not improved much. It was still a little dull, and she, of course, still very sorry for her husband, although slightly resentful that everybody should consider her grief as no more than proper. Since she was young, pretty and merry, she felt sometimes that her grief was creditable, and not merely proper. There was something annoying in the way in which her relatives, both by blood and affinity, acquiesced in a lifelong mourning for her while they were doing their best to enjoy themselves very handsomely. True, they were not widows, but even in India, (Mrs. Nettleton understood) suttee was abolished.

Her brother-in-law Fred was an exception. To him she was indebted for such gaiety as fell to her lot, and for her occasional escapes from an atmosphere too reminiscent of Mr. Nettleton. Fred had been very fond of his brother, but took leave to think that the excellent man, who had striven to promote his wife's pleasure while he lived, would not grudge her a little recreation after his death. He did not agree with the idea that by dying we acquire, or indeed should be indulged in, a posthumous habit of reproachful selfishness. At this time he had expressed his opinion so forcibly as to extort from his mother, with whom Marcia and he had been staying in the country, the concession that there was nothing very shocking in two or three days' bicycle excursion; he and Marcia would look after one another very well; the country was distant and retired; two days out and two days back would be a charming trip for Marcia. Mrs. Nettleton senior yielded with some doubts and reluctance. The pair set forth in high spirits, having arranged means whereby their luggage should meet them at their nightly stopping-places. Their only fear was lest the luggage should fail them; that they themselves should be defaulters had not come into their heads.

Such an occurrence had, however, suggested itself to Fate. On the evening of the second day, about eight o'clock, when rain was falling heavily, the roads turning to bogs, and they still, as they believed, ten or twelve miles from their destination, a complication of misfortunes overtook Fred's bicycle. Suddenly it appeared to do and suffer everything which bicycles should not. The result was that Fred was thrown into a ditch, and the machine itself settled down on the road in pathetic and obvious helplessness. Marcia, having surveyed it for a moment, felt inclined to cry; she was so wet.

"You must take mine," she said with a shiver. "Ride on to the inn and send a carriage for me. It'll only take about—about two hours." She endeavoured by her tone to impart an unreal shortness to this space of time.

"You'd catch your death," said Fred in contemptuous affection. "You must ride on, and I'll follow with the beastly thing. The trap 'll meet me. The road's quite straight; you can't miss it. What? Look odd you arriving alone? All right—if you'd rather stay here all night."

Mrs. Nettleton decided to risk the impression which she might create by arriving unattended, listened carefully to more directions about the road, and left Fred trying to light his pipe from a box of sodden matches. As she ploughed off through the mud, it struck her that after all there was no unseemly riotousness of mirth about this expedition.

Now a road may seem very straight to persons intimately acquainted with it and yet appear to a stranger rich in possible and seductive alternatives. After about two miles this particular road branched into two. The road might be straight, but which was the road? So far as Marcia could see, an equal amount of divergence was involved in going either way. However, after long consideration, she made up her mind that she turned less aside by bearing to the left than by swerving to the right. Her opinion when formed became—as opinions will—at once a certainty; she could not suppose that anybody could be stupid enough to hold any other. She bore to the left; then she rode on for a great many miles, or so it seemed. It rained harder than ever; she dripped from head to foot; mud slushed about the reluctant wheels of her bicycle. She dismounted, deciding that it had been a mistake to force her mother-in-law into an approval of this mad jaunt.

"I could cry," she declared as she shook herself and felt the spray from her clothes flying round her.

In dogged obstinacy she began to walk up a long steep hill, dragging the bicycle with her. She seemed to get no nearer the top; the bicycle appeared to engage itself in a persistent effort to roll down to the bottom. She remembered with vain regret the days when she considered bicycling an unladylike pursuit. Prejudices are no doubt properly condemned, but they save many a disenchantment.

"Thank heaven," said Marcia, "there's a house! I don't suppose it's an inn, but if they're Christians they'll dry me and send something to pick up Fred."

The house to which she referred stood a little way back from the road. At the very first glance it had an air of comfort, of warmth, of a thing even more precious at the moment—absolute dryness. Marcia pushed on at a quicker pace and turned in through the gate. No dog barked inhospitably. She felt as though she would be welcome.

"After all," she reflected, "I'm rather a nice person to turn up out of the night like this!" But a revulsion of feeling followed quickly. "What a fright I must look! I hope there won't be a party."

Leaning her bicycle against the door-post, she rang the bell. The pause that followed plunged her into a nervous and apologetic condition; the conviction of frightfulness grew stronger; her fringe hung in damp strings, her skirt clung round her in an affectionate but unbecoming manner; she felt sure that her face was streaky. And it would undoubtedly look queer that she should arrive alone. These circumstances reduced her to a state of intense embarrassment, which was not lessened when the door opened and revealed a young and good-looking man in evening dress.

"Is your master at home?" she blurted out.

"For the time I am my own master," was the answer, given in smooth, polished and pleasant tones. "May I ask——?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I—I thought—oh, well, I mean, one of our bicycles has broken down and—I'm Mrs. Nettleton, you know, and I've lost my way; and Fred's somewhere back on the road, and—oh, dear, I'm so wet!"

The young man smiled very pleasantly.

"I understand perfectly," said he. "Believe me, I shall be delighted to assist you. You must come in and get dry."

"And you'll send for——?"

"I'll send for your husband as soon as I can."

Marcia smiled; it was very amusing that Fred should be taken for her husband, a boy like Fred! But she did not undeceive her host. Perhaps it was as well as it was. She would tell him later on, when Fred came. Meanwhile the little deception was rather fun.

"This is yours?" the young man asked, laying his hand on the bicycle. "I'd better bring it in, hadn't I?" He brought it into the hall, and after an examination of it looked up smiling as he observed, "This one seems right enough, Mrs.—er—Nettleton."

He seemed pleased to see her. Not surprise, which she had anticipated, not amusement, which she had dreaded, but simple gratification inspired the smile which lit up his handsome features as he ushered her into the hall. The house was delightfully warm and dry. Marcia sighed in contentment.

"It's so kind of you," she murmured gratefully, with a glance at his face.

"I'm delighted," said he. "The trap shall go and fetch. Mr. Nettleton as soon as possible." He smiled pleasantly, repeating, "as soon as possible." Then he added, "Meanwhile you must change your things."

"Oh, but I've got no luggage."

"That's all right,"he assured her. "There's everything you want here."

"He's married," Marcia decided in a satisfaction just vaguely touched with disappointment. Raiment was assured at the cost of romance. Well, the world is what it is, and Marcia was wet.

They passed into the dining-room. The table was spread, places for two being laid. The young man rang the bell. A maid-servant of mature years and most respectable aspect appeared. Marcia turned towards her rather defiantly; she was thinking of what the maid would certainly be thinking. But the maid looked merely deferential.