Posted in Posted by J. M. Barrie

    Hello, this is the next part of my story, but with a warning, Jo Pippin just went over it for the first time last night, so it is basically unedited. I have not been able to write how I should until Rick comes in, since he is the best character. Hawthorne, though the main character, is intolerable, which actually works with a story like this, but I wish Richard was in it more.

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    With a feeling of defeat, he walks out the door and realizes that he had hardly breathed that whole time. Wondering if Waverley takes pleasure in making people feel uncomfortable, Mr. Hawthorne enters the grand hallway and hardly notices the old servant saying, “How did it go, Mr. Hawthorne?” He answers with a low mumble that she cannot understand as he proceeds to the door, observing every corner of the house, every door and nook, every floorboard and every inch of the walls, thinking of how all this can be his. It can be, if he will only marry Judith. Yes, only marry Judith! That is not too much to ask; just be together for a lifetime, only be her husband, only give up his life for her, only wait on her hand and foot, only serve her and love her, only be hers forever. Hawthorne meets the same dirty street with much different feelings than the last time he stood there, only a few minutes ago. Now what to do with himself? He must have a plan for the future: a wife, a house, he realizes now, perhaps for the first time. Where he is now is not a beautiful place; he is near penniless, depending on his older brother for food and a place to stay. As he considers his standings, Miss Waverley appears better and better, if not for that Helen McLeod.

    In his thought, he trudges through the crowd, bumping into quite a few in his haste. He pushes by a sharp-eyed man, and is knocked back with a jolt onto the dusty ground. As he gets up, the man tells him to watch where he is walking, throws a fiery glare at Hawthorne, and shoves him into a lamppost. By the time he turns around, the stranger has disappeared into the faces. He wipes the sweat from his forehead, and feels blood running down. Red with anger and heat, he growls something under his breath and looks at his coat. It is a tattered, useless thing after all the wear it has gotten; it is ripped on one shoulder and worn down so in many places that it shows his dirty shirt, for the coat is threadbare. He tears a strip off his sleeve, wipes the blood from his face, and casts the scrap into the dirt.

    And so, with Green Collis to his back, the knolls at his feet, and the bustling town separating the two like a high brick wall, our Mr. Hawthorne flees to the hills, his safe haven, where he can be free from this alien worry, but his mind remains to be plagued by the very idea.

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     Don't laugh at me, it has only been edited once, and it is normally edited for days before it is posted on here. And sorry it was so short.

     ~jm