Now, I come to the cruel part of the story,—merely breaking off, my dear Handel, to remark that a dinner-napkin will not go into a tumbler.
And now, Handel," said he, finally throwing off the story as it were, "there is a perfectly open understanding between us.
"You don’t mind them, Handel?" said Herbert.
"My dear Handel," he returned, "I shall esteem and respect your confidence."
She is thousands of miles away, from me," said I. "Patience, my dear Handel: time enough, time enough.
Now, Handel, I am quite free from the flavor of sour grapes, upon my soul and honor!
Gravely, Handel, for the subject is grave enough, you know how it is as well as I do.
"They are mounting up, Handel," Herbert would say; "upon my life, they are mounting up."
So I would, Handel, only they are staring me out of countenance.
"It’s for you, Handel," said Herbert, going out and coming back with it, "and I hope there is nothing the matter."
"You can’t try, Handel?"
"Then, my dear Handel," said he, turning round as the door opened, "here is the dinner, and I must beg of you to take the top of the table, because the dinner is of your providing."
Good by, Handel!
I never saw him (for this happened five-and-twenty years ago, before you and I were, Handel), but I have heard my father mention that he was a showy man, and the kind of man for the purpose.
"For," says Herbert to me, coming home to dinner on one of those special occasions, "I find the truth to be, Handel, that an opening won’t come to one, but one must go to it,—so I have been."
Let me introduce the topic, Handel, by mentioning that in London it is not the custom to put the knife in the mouth,—for fear of accidents,—and that while the fork is reserved for that use, it is not put further in than necessary.
Handel, my dear fellow, how are you, and again how are you, and again how are you?
"My poor dear Handel," he replied, holding his head, "I am too stunned to think."
"My poor dear Handel," Herbert repeated.
"Handel," said Herbert, stopping, "you feel convinced that you can take no further benefits from him; do you?"
For, Clara has no mother of her own, Handel, and no relation in the world but old Gruffandgrim.
What do you suppose he wants now, Handel?
We are both good watermen, Handel, and could take him down the river ourselves when the right time comes.
I sat with Provis last night, Handel, two good hours.
Do you know, Handel, he improves?
—My poor Handel, I hurt you!
We shall lose a fine opportunity if I put off going to Cairo, and I am very much afraid I must go, Handel, when you most need me.
But yours cannot be dismissed; indeed, my dear dear Handel, it must not be dismissed.
"I will," said I. "In this branch house of ours, Handel, we must have a—"
Now, Handel,—in short, my dear boy, will you come to me?
We should get on so well, Handel!
The blessed darling comes of no family, my dear Handel, and never looked into the red book, and hasn’t a notion about her grandpapa.
It was at this dark time of my life that Herbert returned home one evening, a good deal cast down, and said,— "My dear Handel, I fear I shall soon have to leave you."
Handel, my— Halloa!
Handel, my good fellow;"—though he spoke in this light tone, he was very much in earnest,—"I have been thinking since we have been talking with our feet on this fender, that Estella surely cannot be a condition of your inheritance, if she was never referred to by your guardian.
My good Handel, is it not obvious that with Newgate in the next street, there must be far greater hazard in your breaking your mind to him and making him reckless, here, than elsewhere.
There was something charmingly cordial and engaging in the manner in which after saying "Now, Handel," as if it were the grave beginning of a portentous business exordium, he had suddenly given up that tone, stretched out his honest hand, and spoken like a schoolboy.
"It seems," said Herbert, "—there’s a bandage off most charmingly, and now comes the cool one,—makes you shrink at first, my poor dear fellow, don’t it? but it will be comfortable presently, —it seems that the woman was a young woman, and a jealous woman, and a revengeful woman; revengeful, Handel, to the last degree."
There’s a charming piece of music by Handel, called the Harmonious Blacksmith."
"I thought he was proud," said I. "My good Handel, so he was.
"How do you know it?" said I. "How do I know it, Handel?
"Lucky for you then, Handel," said Herbert, "that you are picked out for her and allotted to her.
"I was going to say a word or two, Handel, concerning my father and my father’s son.
"My dear Handel," Herbert would say to me, in all sincerity, if you will believe me, those very words were on my lips, by a strange coincidence."
"Yes; but my dear Handel," Herbert went on, as if we had been talking, instead of silent, "its having been so strongly rooted in the breast of a boy whom nature and circumstances made so romantic, renders it very serious.
"Anyhow, my dear Handel," said he presently, "soldiering won’t do.
"All is well, Handel," said Herbert, "and he is quite satisfied, though eager to see you.
A curious place, Handel; isn’t it?"
"But you can’t help groaning, my dear Handel.
"Now, Handel," Herbert replied, in his gay, hopeful way, "it seems to me that in the despondency of the tender passion, we are looking into our gift-horse’s mouth with a magnifying-glass.
There are no more uses of "Handel" in the book.
Show samples from other sources
Each year during the Christmas season, thousands of people join at the Music Center to sing Handel’s Messiah.
Just as he did so, the regal, celebrant strains of Handel’s Water Music shimmered down the stairs from Sophie’s room.