The Argosy — page 127: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

IT2 A TRAGEDY. ok windows of the room, called the Buttery, which Mr. Preen used as an office in his house at Duck Brook, were thrown open to the warm, pure air. It was about the hottest part of the afternoon. Oliver Preen sat back in his chair before the large table covered with papers, waiting in idleness and inward rebellion—trebel- lion against the untoward fate which had latterly condemned him to this dreary and monotonous life. Taking out his pocket-handker- chief with a fling, he passed it over his fair, mild face, which was very hot just now. To day, of all days, Oliver had wanted to be at liberty, whereas he was being kept a prisoner longer than usual, and for nothing. When Mr. Preen rode out after breakfast in the morning he had left Oliver a couple of letters to copy as a beginning, remarking that there was a great deal to do that day, double work, and he should be back to it in half-an-hour. ‘The double work arose from the fact that none had been done the day before, as Mr. Preen was out. For that day, Monday—this was Tuesday—was the day Mr. Preen had paid us a visit at Crabb Cot, to be paid for Taffy, the pony, and had then gone to Norton, and afterwards to Stoulton, and it had taken him the best part of the day. So the double work was waiting. But the half hours and the hours had passed on, and Mr. Preen had not yet returned. It was now three o’clock in the afternoon, and they had dined without him. Oliver, who did not dare to absent himself without permission, and merhaps was too conscientious to do so, left his chair for the window. The old garden was quite a wilderness of blossom and colour, with all kinds of homely flowers crowded into it. The young man stretched forth his hand and plucked a spray or two of jessamine, which grew against the wall. Idly smelling it he lost himself in a vision of the days gone by; his careless, happy life at Tours, in his aunt’s luxurious home, when he had no fear of a dark future, had only to dress well and ride or drive out, and idly enjoy himself. Suddenly he was brought back to reality. The sound of hoofs, clattering into the fold-yard behind the house, struck upon his ear, and he knew his father had come home. Ten minutes yet, or more, and then Mr. Preen came into the room, his little dark face looking darker and more cross than usual. He had ‘een snatching some light refreshment. He sat down at once in his place at the table, facing the windows; Oliver sat opposite to him. “What have you done?” asked he. ‘“‘I have only copied those two letters; there was nothing else to de,” replied Oliver. ECORMICMOOOKS (EC) m