CHAPTER XXVI.Against her Better Judgment.It is never well to vie with experts in their own subjects; humiliation surely attends the audacious attempt, and a humiliation which receives and deserves no softening sympathy. Moreover, even if the technical difficulties could be overcome, the description of a wedding must be either florid or cynical, assuming impossible happiness, or insinuating improbable catastrophe. Wherefore this narrative, which abhors either of these extremes, takes leave to resume its course at the moment when Sir Harry and Lady Fulmer have been driven away for their honeymoon, and the guests at Mount Pleasant are engaged in looking at one another's presents, one another's clothes, and their own watches, while a group of men have sought retirement and cigars in the garden. The Lord Lieutenant was paying compliments of alarming elaboration and stateliness to Nellie Fane; and Janet Delane, having discharged her duty in that line with generous graciousness, was looking with despair at Captain Ripley's puzzled face and betugged mustache, and wondering why men could not or would not understand plain English,and why—why above all—they had no more sense of dignity or of timeliness than to renew useless entreaties in a roomful of people, and—to descend to the particular case—with Dale Bannister only a few yards away, paying obvious inattention to a rhapsodic bridesmaid."Wasn't it a pretty wedding?" asked the bridesmaid. "You know I'm a stranger to Denborough, and I never knew you had so many beautiful girls. It might have been St. Peter's.""Might it?" said Dale, with an absent smile, entirely unappreciative of the compliment. He did not know what or where St. Peter's was."Oh, it was lovely. Well, dear Tora herself is very pretty. And then, Miss Delane! I dolovethat severe, statuesque style, don't you? How pale she is, though! she doesn't look very happy, does she? Oh, and Miss Fane! Isn't she lovely? She sings, doesn't she? I think people of that kind are so nice. Oh, and I've heard all about her. How nice it was of her to be so brave, wasn't it?""Naturally, I think so.""Oh, of course, I forgot. It's so nice when people are good and pretty too, isn't it? After all, good looks do go for something, don't they?" and she fixed a pair of large and unnaturally innocent eyes on Dale."You must tell me about that," he said with labored politeness. "How do you find it?""Oh, nonsense, Mr. Bannister! But, seriously, did you ever see anything so lovely asthe way Sir Harry looked at Tora when they were——"Dale had gone—without a word of excuse. He had seen Janet rise abruptly, with an impatient wave of her hand, and Captain Ripley turn on his heel and disappear into the eddying throng that was circling round the wedding presents. He darted across to Janet, and held out his hand."I must see you here," he said, "since you will not see me at the Grange."The bridesmaid marked their greeting. She rose with offended dignity and returned to her mother. She says to this day that she has only known one poet, and he was not at all nice, and concludes, after the manner of a certain part of humanity, that none of the rest are nice either.Janet looked at Dale doubtfully, then she led the way to a little room which was free from the crowd. Then she sat down. "I'm very tired," she said, "and I want to stay here and rest. Will you let me?""I know what you mean, Jan. How can I, when I never have a chance of saying what I want to say to you? You talk to Ripley——""I don't comfort Gerard Ripley much.""I'm glad to hear it," said Dale heartlessly."I'm not much troubled about him. I'm only a habit to him.""I don't care twopence about him. Jan, when is this sort of thing to end? Don't you like seeing me?"Janet had made up her mind to treat Dale at first with simple friendliness; if this recipefailed, it was to be followed by distant civility. She answered collectedly enough, in spite of a quiver in her voice:"I thought I had better not see you just now.""Why, in Heaven's name?""I can't go through it all again. Indeed I can't, Dale.""Do you seriously expect me to be content with what you said then—to go away and never come near you again?"Dale spoke vehemently. It was obvious that the distant civility would be called into play. Perhaps silence was Janet's idea of it, for she said nothing."Because that's what it comes to," pursued Dale. "Do you imagine, Jan, I could see you now—after it all—except as your lover? What do you want me to do?""Miss Fane——" began Janet in a very small voice."I'll never see Nellie Fane again if she robs me of you," Dale declared with great energy, and probably perfect, though unintentional, untruth.Janet looked up and met his eyes. Then she dropped hers, and said, in tones quite unlike those of distant civility:"I wonder how you care for such a mean-spirited creature as I am. If I told you I loved you still—how could you believe me? I told you before, and then I——""Behaved like a sensible girl.""Oh, no, no. It was a lie when I said——""Tell me another, then," said Dale. "I like them."Janet's resistance, like Bob Acres' courage, was oozing out of her finger tips."I know what it will be," she faltered plaintively. "You'll always be thinking about her, and so shall I—and it will be horrible. No, I won't do it. I have some resolution, Dale; it wasn't mere nonsense. I did mean it.""Oh, no," said Dale persuasively; "you never did, Jan. You had no idea how bored you would be without me. Now, had you?""I can never respect myself again.""It's quite unnecessary, dear; I'll do all that.""Are you really quite—quite sure, Dale, that you will never——""Oh, hang it all!" said Dale, and he kissed her."Dale! the door's open."Dale shut it, and the rest of the conversation became inaudible, and remains unknown.The guests had gone. Mrs. Hodge and Nellie, who were to keep the Colonel company for a little while, had walked down to Denborough to tell Mrs. Roberts all about the event of the day; and the Colonel was bustling about, getting the presents packed up, and counting, with some surprise, the empty champagne bottles. He was thus engaged when the door of the little room opened, to let Janet and Dale out."Dear me! I thought you'd gone. Nellie asked me, and I told her so.""I am just going, Colonel Smith," said Janet."So am I," said Dale.The Colonel watched them go together."There's another man going to lose his daughter," he said. "By Jove, I thought it was to be Nellie Fane!"When Janet left Dale at the Grange gates, she went to her father's study."Lord, child," said the Squire, "are you only just back?""I stayed to see them off.""Your mother did that, and she's been back two hours. She couldn't find you.""Papa," said Janet, sitting on the arm of his chair, "I'm very much ashamed of myself.""What have you been, doing now? Ill treating that poor young man again?""No.""He's not a bad fellow, you know, after all—honest and good—not brilliant, of course.""Not brilliant, papa?""I don't mean he's a fool; I believe he's an efficient officer——""Officer? Why, you're talking of Gerard!""Of course I am.""How can you imagine I was thinking of Gerard? I meant Mr. Bannister.""Bannister? Why, you told me only the other day——""Yes. That's why.""Why what, child?""Why I'm ashamed."The Squire raised himself and looked severely at his daughter."A precious fuss you've made about nothing.""I can't help it, papa. I don't want to, but he insists.""He seems to know how to manage you, which is more than I do. There, go and tell your mother. And, Jan!""Yes.""If ever you say you won't have him again——""Yes, papa.""By Jove, you shan't!" said the Squire with emphasis, and he added, as his daughter fled after a hasty kiss, "Perhaps that'll keep her quiet."Dale found nobody but Philip Hume to congratulate him, and Philip was, as usual now, busy over his little plan."Oh, she's come round, has she?" he asked, with no sign of surprise.Dale said she had, and Philip meditatively took up his little plan."Have you told Nellie?" he asked."No. I haven't seen her.""She never knew you had asked Miss Delane before?""No. Nobody knew but her people and you. I think she had an idea I liked Jan.""Yes, but not more?""No. I don't think so."Philip whistled gently, and twisted the little plan in his fingers. Dale, in his good humor, said:"Why the deuce, Phil, do you go on fidgetingwith that thing? You're like an old hen over an egg.""Yes; I don't know that it is any good. I think I'll destroy it."And he tore it slowly in two, and threw it in the fire."The vindictive theory of punishment," he remarked, with apparent irrelevance, "does not commend itself to me. If no evil consequences exist to be averted, why should we punish?" and he pushed the plan farther into the blaze with the poker."If you want to argue that sort of thing, old fellow, you must ring for Wilson. I'm going to have a try at some verses.""Going to write your own epitaph, like Swift?"Dale shook his head and smiled, with the impenetrable, hopeless happiness of successful love.
Against her Better Judgment.
It is never well to vie with experts in their own subjects; humiliation surely attends the audacious attempt, and a humiliation which receives and deserves no softening sympathy. Moreover, even if the technical difficulties could be overcome, the description of a wedding must be either florid or cynical, assuming impossible happiness, or insinuating improbable catastrophe. Wherefore this narrative, which abhors either of these extremes, takes leave to resume its course at the moment when Sir Harry and Lady Fulmer have been driven away for their honeymoon, and the guests at Mount Pleasant are engaged in looking at one another's presents, one another's clothes, and their own watches, while a group of men have sought retirement and cigars in the garden. The Lord Lieutenant was paying compliments of alarming elaboration and stateliness to Nellie Fane; and Janet Delane, having discharged her duty in that line with generous graciousness, was looking with despair at Captain Ripley's puzzled face and betugged mustache, and wondering why men could not or would not understand plain English,and why—why above all—they had no more sense of dignity or of timeliness than to renew useless entreaties in a roomful of people, and—to descend to the particular case—with Dale Bannister only a few yards away, paying obvious inattention to a rhapsodic bridesmaid.
"Wasn't it a pretty wedding?" asked the bridesmaid. "You know I'm a stranger to Denborough, and I never knew you had so many beautiful girls. It might have been St. Peter's."
"Might it?" said Dale, with an absent smile, entirely unappreciative of the compliment. He did not know what or where St. Peter's was.
"Oh, it was lovely. Well, dear Tora herself is very pretty. And then, Miss Delane! I dolovethat severe, statuesque style, don't you? How pale she is, though! she doesn't look very happy, does she? Oh, and Miss Fane! Isn't she lovely? She sings, doesn't she? I think people of that kind are so nice. Oh, and I've heard all about her. How nice it was of her to be so brave, wasn't it?"
"Naturally, I think so."
"Oh, of course, I forgot. It's so nice when people are good and pretty too, isn't it? After all, good looks do go for something, don't they?" and she fixed a pair of large and unnaturally innocent eyes on Dale.
"You must tell me about that," he said with labored politeness. "How do you find it?"
"Oh, nonsense, Mr. Bannister! But, seriously, did you ever see anything so lovely asthe way Sir Harry looked at Tora when they were——"
Dale had gone—without a word of excuse. He had seen Janet rise abruptly, with an impatient wave of her hand, and Captain Ripley turn on his heel and disappear into the eddying throng that was circling round the wedding presents. He darted across to Janet, and held out his hand.
"I must see you here," he said, "since you will not see me at the Grange."
The bridesmaid marked their greeting. She rose with offended dignity and returned to her mother. She says to this day that she has only known one poet, and he was not at all nice, and concludes, after the manner of a certain part of humanity, that none of the rest are nice either.
Janet looked at Dale doubtfully, then she led the way to a little room which was free from the crowd. Then she sat down. "I'm very tired," she said, "and I want to stay here and rest. Will you let me?"
"I know what you mean, Jan. How can I, when I never have a chance of saying what I want to say to you? You talk to Ripley——"
"I don't comfort Gerard Ripley much."
"I'm glad to hear it," said Dale heartlessly.
"I'm not much troubled about him. I'm only a habit to him."
"I don't care twopence about him. Jan, when is this sort of thing to end? Don't you like seeing me?"
Janet had made up her mind to treat Dale at first with simple friendliness; if this recipefailed, it was to be followed by distant civility. She answered collectedly enough, in spite of a quiver in her voice:
"I thought I had better not see you just now."
"Why, in Heaven's name?"
"I can't go through it all again. Indeed I can't, Dale."
"Do you seriously expect me to be content with what you said then—to go away and never come near you again?"
Dale spoke vehemently. It was obvious that the distant civility would be called into play. Perhaps silence was Janet's idea of it, for she said nothing.
"Because that's what it comes to," pursued Dale. "Do you imagine, Jan, I could see you now—after it all—except as your lover? What do you want me to do?"
"Miss Fane——" began Janet in a very small voice.
"I'll never see Nellie Fane again if she robs me of you," Dale declared with great energy, and probably perfect, though unintentional, untruth.
Janet looked up and met his eyes. Then she dropped hers, and said, in tones quite unlike those of distant civility:
"I wonder how you care for such a mean-spirited creature as I am. If I told you I loved you still—how could you believe me? I told you before, and then I——"
"Behaved like a sensible girl."
"Oh, no, no. It was a lie when I said——"
"Tell me another, then," said Dale. "I like them."
Janet's resistance, like Bob Acres' courage, was oozing out of her finger tips.
"I know what it will be," she faltered plaintively. "You'll always be thinking about her, and so shall I—and it will be horrible. No, I won't do it. I have some resolution, Dale; it wasn't mere nonsense. I did mean it."
"Oh, no," said Dale persuasively; "you never did, Jan. You had no idea how bored you would be without me. Now, had you?"
"I can never respect myself again."
"It's quite unnecessary, dear; I'll do all that."
"Are you really quite—quite sure, Dale, that you will never——"
"Oh, hang it all!" said Dale, and he kissed her.
"Dale! the door's open."
Dale shut it, and the rest of the conversation became inaudible, and remains unknown.
The guests had gone. Mrs. Hodge and Nellie, who were to keep the Colonel company for a little while, had walked down to Denborough to tell Mrs. Roberts all about the event of the day; and the Colonel was bustling about, getting the presents packed up, and counting, with some surprise, the empty champagne bottles. He was thus engaged when the door of the little room opened, to let Janet and Dale out.
"Dear me! I thought you'd gone. Nellie asked me, and I told her so."
"I am just going, Colonel Smith," said Janet.
"So am I," said Dale.
The Colonel watched them go together.
"There's another man going to lose his daughter," he said. "By Jove, I thought it was to be Nellie Fane!"
When Janet left Dale at the Grange gates, she went to her father's study.
"Lord, child," said the Squire, "are you only just back?"
"I stayed to see them off."
"Your mother did that, and she's been back two hours. She couldn't find you."
"Papa," said Janet, sitting on the arm of his chair, "I'm very much ashamed of myself."
"What have you been, doing now? Ill treating that poor young man again?"
"No."
"He's not a bad fellow, you know, after all—honest and good—not brilliant, of course."
"Not brilliant, papa?"
"I don't mean he's a fool; I believe he's an efficient officer——"
"Officer? Why, you're talking of Gerard!"
"Of course I am."
"How can you imagine I was thinking of Gerard? I meant Mr. Bannister."
"Bannister? Why, you told me only the other day——"
"Yes. That's why."
"Why what, child?"
"Why I'm ashamed."
The Squire raised himself and looked severely at his daughter.
"A precious fuss you've made about nothing."
"I can't help it, papa. I don't want to, but he insists."
"He seems to know how to manage you, which is more than I do. There, go and tell your mother. And, Jan!"
"Yes."
"If ever you say you won't have him again——"
"Yes, papa."
"By Jove, you shan't!" said the Squire with emphasis, and he added, as his daughter fled after a hasty kiss, "Perhaps that'll keep her quiet."
Dale found nobody but Philip Hume to congratulate him, and Philip was, as usual now, busy over his little plan.
"Oh, she's come round, has she?" he asked, with no sign of surprise.
Dale said she had, and Philip meditatively took up his little plan.
"Have you told Nellie?" he asked.
"No. I haven't seen her."
"She never knew you had asked Miss Delane before?"
"No. Nobody knew but her people and you. I think she had an idea I liked Jan."
"Yes, but not more?"
"No. I don't think so."
Philip whistled gently, and twisted the little plan in his fingers. Dale, in his good humor, said:
"Why the deuce, Phil, do you go on fidgetingwith that thing? You're like an old hen over an egg."
"Yes; I don't know that it is any good. I think I'll destroy it."
And he tore it slowly in two, and threw it in the fire.
"The vindictive theory of punishment," he remarked, with apparent irrelevance, "does not commend itself to me. If no evil consequences exist to be averted, why should we punish?" and he pushed the plan farther into the blaze with the poker.
"If you want to argue that sort of thing, old fellow, you must ring for Wilson. I'm going to have a try at some verses."
"Going to write your own epitaph, like Swift?"
Dale shook his head and smiled, with the impenetrable, hopeless happiness of successful love.
CHAPTER XXVII.A Villain Unmasked.A few days after Dale's love affairs had begun to flow in a more peaceful channel the Mayor of Market Denborough had an interview with Mr. Philip Hume, and Philip emerged from the conversation with a smile of mingled amusement and perplexity on his face. The Mayor had been to the Grange; the Squire fully approved of the scheme; a hundred pounds was subscribed already, and another twenty or thirty expected. Philip was requested to act as an intermediary, and find out from Miss Fane what form she would prefer that the testimonial which Denborough intended to offer to her, in recognition of her signal gallantry, should take."I wanted to wait and make it a wedding present," said the Mayor, with a wink, "but the Squire thinks we had better not wait for that.""Ah, does he?" said Philip."Though what Mr. Bannister's waitin' for I can't see; and I said as much to Miss Janet when I met her in the garden.""What did she say?" asked Philip in some curiosity."Well, sir, now you ask me, I don't think she said anything. She seemed a bit put-out like about something.""It couldn't have been anything you said?""Why, no, sir. I only said as I shouldn't be slow to move if a young lady like Miss Fane was waitin' for me—and her havin' saved my life, too.""Good Lord!""Beggin' your pardon, sir?""Nothing, Mr. Mayor, nothing.""You'll see Miss Fane about it? She hasn't left the Colonel's.""Oh, yes, I suppose so. Yes, I'll see her."Dale had gone to London, alleging that he had shopping to do, and hardly denying that his business would lie chiefly at the jeweler's. Philip was glad that he was away, for he thus could start on his mission unquestioned. He found Nellie at home, and at once plunged into the matter. Directly Nellie understood what was proposed, she jumped up, crying:"Oh, no, they mustn't. You must stop them.""Why, it's a very natural tribute——""I won't have it! I can't have it! You must tell them, Mr. Hume.""It'll look rather ungracious, won't it? Why shouldn't you take their present?" he asked, looking at her in a half-amused way."Oh, no, no! You don't understand. Oh,what a wretched girl I am!" and Nellie, flinging herself in a chair, began to cry.He sat and watched her with a grim smile, which he made an effort to maintain. But the sobs were rather piteous, and the smile gradually became very mildly ferocious, and presently vanished altogether. Presently, also, Nellie stopped crying, sat up, and stared in front of her with a dazed look and parted lips."Well?" said Philip."I won't receive the testimonial.""Is that all you have to say?" he asked in a tone of disappointment."Yes," she answered, plucking nervously at her handkerchief, "that's all.""No reason to give?""Tell them that there's nothing to give me a testimonial for.""Shall I?" he asked.Nellie glanced at him with a start, but in an instant she recovered herself."I mean that I would much rather no more fuss was made about what I did.""As you please," he said coldly. "I will tell the Mayor, and get him to stop the thing.""Is Dale at home?" she asked, as Philip rose."He's gone to town. Do you want to see him about anything?""No—nothing in particular—only—I haven't seen him for three or four days.""Are you staying here long?""I am staying till Tora comes home, and then I go to her.""Well, good-by. I'll tell the Mayor.""Thank you so much. Good-by."She was quite calm again by now; her sudden fit of agitation was over, and apparently she felt nothing more than a distaste for the parade of a public presentation. So easy and natural had her bearing become that Philip Hume, as he walked away, wondered if he had been on a wrong scent after all. If so, he had behaved in a very brutal——He broke off his thoughts abruptly, to recognize and bow to Janet Delane, who whirled by in her victoria, on the way to Mount Pleasant. She seemed to be going to pay a visit to Nellie Fane. Philip, who liked to hear how things happen, regretted that he had cut his own visit short and missed Janet's entry.Janet whirled on. Her balance of mind, delicately poised between her love and her pride, had suffered a new and severe shock from the Mayor's jocose remarks. She could not rest. She felt that she must see for herself—must see Nellie and find out why everybody thought what they did—yes, and what Nellie thought. She was full of things which she had to say to Nellie; she was prepared, if need be, again to sacrifice herself for Nellie, but the truth about it all at least she was determined to hear; on what it was, Dale's uncertain happiness again hung suspended. With her usual frankness and candor, she straightway began to tell Nellie all her story. Nellie listened in almost stony stillness."It's so hard to speak of," said Janet, "but yetI think we must. It is wretched to let things go on like this. At least I am wretched, and I fear he is, and——""I'm sure I am," said Nellie, with a forlorn laugh.Janet came and knelt by her and took her hands."You too? you whom we all admire so? Oh, what a world it is! Why did I ever love him?""Ah, you do love him?""Yes. And why did I ever make him love me? Ah, Nellie, if only——"Nellie had sprung up."How do you know he loves you?" she cried."How do I know, dear? Why, he told me.""When? when?""Why, before—the day before it all happened. But since then I have felt, and I told him, that he belonged to you—I mean, dear, that it must be you now whom he must really love, and that I——"Nellie was not listening."He told you before?" she asked in a low voice."Yes, the day before. But afterward——""You were actually engaged then?""Yes, we were.""I never knew it. I didn't know that. Oh, how wicked I have been!""Wicked? What do you mean?" asked Janet, puzzled at her companion's strange behavior.Nellie stood silent, and Janet went on."But I feel, I can't help feeling, that it is to you he owes his life—to you——""Be quiet!" cried Nellie. "Are you engaged now?""I—I don't know.""Does he still love you?""Yes, I think so.""Why didn't you tell me? Why did you keep me in the dark? Why did you tempt me?""Indeed, I don't understand.""I didn't know he had told you. I only thought he had a fancy—— Oh, and I loved him too! I did indeed!""I know, dear," said Janet; "and so, when you had been so brave, and I so cowardly——""Stop!" cried Nellie again, and as she spoke the door opened and Dale Bannister came in. He was fresh back from London, and had ridden over to see Nellie.He stood and looked in surprise from one to the other. There was evidently something more than an afternoon call going on.Nellie greeted his coming almost gladly."Ah, you are here? Then I can tell you. I can't bear it any longer. O Dale, I didn't know you had told her. Indeed I didn't, or I would never have done it;" and, carried away by her emotion, she fell on her knees before him."Why, Nellie, what in the world's the matter?""I have been wicked," she went on quickly, clinging to his hand. "I have deceived you.I have told you lies. Oh, how wicked I have been!"Dale looked inquiringly at Janet, but she shook her head in bewilderment."Well, Nellie, let's sit down quietly and hear the villainy. What is it?"She refused to let him raise her, and went on, as she was, on her knees."I didn't mean it at first. I didn't think of it, but when I found you all thought it, and—and you were pleased, Dale, I couldn't help it."Dale saw the only chance of arriving at the truth was not to interrupt. He signed to Janet to keep silence."I came up meaning to warn you. I was afraid for you. I saw you standing by the tree, and I was running toward you, and all of a sudden I saw him, and the pistol, and——"She paused and drooped her head. Dale pressed her hand and said:"Well, Nellie?""I was afraid," she said, "and I turned and began to run away, and as I was running, it hit me." And, her confession ended, she sank into a little woebegone heap on the floor at his feet.Dale understood now. She had been tempted by the hope of winning his love through his gratitude, and had not refused the false glory they all thrust upon her. Now she had heard her hopes were vain, that they had been vain even before that night, and in the misery of sin, and useless sin, she lay crying at his feet, not daring to look up at him.He stood there awkwardly, as a man standswhen he feels more moved than he allows himself to show."Poor child!" he said, with a break in his voice. "Poor child!"Janet caught him by the arm."What does she say? That she didn't save you?" she whispered eagerly. "That she was running away?"Dale nodded, and Janet fell down beside Nellie, embracing her, and saying, half laughing, half crying: "O Nellie, how sweet, how sweet of you to have been a coward too!"
A Villain Unmasked.
A few days after Dale's love affairs had begun to flow in a more peaceful channel the Mayor of Market Denborough had an interview with Mr. Philip Hume, and Philip emerged from the conversation with a smile of mingled amusement and perplexity on his face. The Mayor had been to the Grange; the Squire fully approved of the scheme; a hundred pounds was subscribed already, and another twenty or thirty expected. Philip was requested to act as an intermediary, and find out from Miss Fane what form she would prefer that the testimonial which Denborough intended to offer to her, in recognition of her signal gallantry, should take.
"I wanted to wait and make it a wedding present," said the Mayor, with a wink, "but the Squire thinks we had better not wait for that."
"Ah, does he?" said Philip.
"Though what Mr. Bannister's waitin' for I can't see; and I said as much to Miss Janet when I met her in the garden."
"What did she say?" asked Philip in some curiosity.
"Well, sir, now you ask me, I don't think she said anything. She seemed a bit put-out like about something."
"It couldn't have been anything you said?"
"Why, no, sir. I only said as I shouldn't be slow to move if a young lady like Miss Fane was waitin' for me—and her havin' saved my life, too."
"Good Lord!"
"Beggin' your pardon, sir?"
"Nothing, Mr. Mayor, nothing."
"You'll see Miss Fane about it? She hasn't left the Colonel's."
"Oh, yes, I suppose so. Yes, I'll see her."
Dale had gone to London, alleging that he had shopping to do, and hardly denying that his business would lie chiefly at the jeweler's. Philip was glad that he was away, for he thus could start on his mission unquestioned. He found Nellie at home, and at once plunged into the matter. Directly Nellie understood what was proposed, she jumped up, crying:
"Oh, no, they mustn't. You must stop them."
"Why, it's a very natural tribute——"
"I won't have it! I can't have it! You must tell them, Mr. Hume."
"It'll look rather ungracious, won't it? Why shouldn't you take their present?" he asked, looking at her in a half-amused way.
"Oh, no, no! You don't understand. Oh,what a wretched girl I am!" and Nellie, flinging herself in a chair, began to cry.
He sat and watched her with a grim smile, which he made an effort to maintain. But the sobs were rather piteous, and the smile gradually became very mildly ferocious, and presently vanished altogether. Presently, also, Nellie stopped crying, sat up, and stared in front of her with a dazed look and parted lips.
"Well?" said Philip.
"I won't receive the testimonial."
"Is that all you have to say?" he asked in a tone of disappointment.
"Yes," she answered, plucking nervously at her handkerchief, "that's all."
"No reason to give?"
"Tell them that there's nothing to give me a testimonial for."
"Shall I?" he asked.
Nellie glanced at him with a start, but in an instant she recovered herself.
"I mean that I would much rather no more fuss was made about what I did."
"As you please," he said coldly. "I will tell the Mayor, and get him to stop the thing."
"Is Dale at home?" she asked, as Philip rose.
"He's gone to town. Do you want to see him about anything?"
"No—nothing in particular—only—I haven't seen him for three or four days."
"Are you staying here long?"
"I am staying till Tora comes home, and then I go to her."
"Well, good-by. I'll tell the Mayor."
"Thank you so much. Good-by."
She was quite calm again by now; her sudden fit of agitation was over, and apparently she felt nothing more than a distaste for the parade of a public presentation. So easy and natural had her bearing become that Philip Hume, as he walked away, wondered if he had been on a wrong scent after all. If so, he had behaved in a very brutal——
He broke off his thoughts abruptly, to recognize and bow to Janet Delane, who whirled by in her victoria, on the way to Mount Pleasant. She seemed to be going to pay a visit to Nellie Fane. Philip, who liked to hear how things happen, regretted that he had cut his own visit short and missed Janet's entry.
Janet whirled on. Her balance of mind, delicately poised between her love and her pride, had suffered a new and severe shock from the Mayor's jocose remarks. She could not rest. She felt that she must see for herself—must see Nellie and find out why everybody thought what they did—yes, and what Nellie thought. She was full of things which she had to say to Nellie; she was prepared, if need be, again to sacrifice herself for Nellie, but the truth about it all at least she was determined to hear; on what it was, Dale's uncertain happiness again hung suspended. With her usual frankness and candor, she straightway began to tell Nellie all her story. Nellie listened in almost stony stillness.
"It's so hard to speak of," said Janet, "but yetI think we must. It is wretched to let things go on like this. At least I am wretched, and I fear he is, and——"
"I'm sure I am," said Nellie, with a forlorn laugh.
Janet came and knelt by her and took her hands.
"You too? you whom we all admire so? Oh, what a world it is! Why did I ever love him?"
"Ah, you do love him?"
"Yes. And why did I ever make him love me? Ah, Nellie, if only——"
Nellie had sprung up.
"How do you know he loves you?" she cried.
"How do I know, dear? Why, he told me."
"When? when?"
"Why, before—the day before it all happened. But since then I have felt, and I told him, that he belonged to you—I mean, dear, that it must be you now whom he must really love, and that I——"
Nellie was not listening.
"He told you before?" she asked in a low voice.
"Yes, the day before. But afterward——"
"You were actually engaged then?"
"Yes, we were."
"I never knew it. I didn't know that. Oh, how wicked I have been!"
"Wicked? What do you mean?" asked Janet, puzzled at her companion's strange behavior.
Nellie stood silent, and Janet went on.
"But I feel, I can't help feeling, that it is to you he owes his life—to you——"
"Be quiet!" cried Nellie. "Are you engaged now?"
"I—I don't know."
"Does he still love you?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Why didn't you tell me? Why did you keep me in the dark? Why did you tempt me?"
"Indeed, I don't understand."
"I didn't know he had told you. I only thought he had a fancy—— Oh, and I loved him too! I did indeed!"
"I know, dear," said Janet; "and so, when you had been so brave, and I so cowardly——"
"Stop!" cried Nellie again, and as she spoke the door opened and Dale Bannister came in. He was fresh back from London, and had ridden over to see Nellie.
He stood and looked in surprise from one to the other. There was evidently something more than an afternoon call going on.
Nellie greeted his coming almost gladly.
"Ah, you are here? Then I can tell you. I can't bear it any longer. O Dale, I didn't know you had told her. Indeed I didn't, or I would never have done it;" and, carried away by her emotion, she fell on her knees before him.
"Why, Nellie, what in the world's the matter?"
"I have been wicked," she went on quickly, clinging to his hand. "I have deceived you.I have told you lies. Oh, how wicked I have been!"
Dale looked inquiringly at Janet, but she shook her head in bewilderment.
"Well, Nellie, let's sit down quietly and hear the villainy. What is it?"
She refused to let him raise her, and went on, as she was, on her knees.
"I didn't mean it at first. I didn't think of it, but when I found you all thought it, and—and you were pleased, Dale, I couldn't help it."
Dale saw the only chance of arriving at the truth was not to interrupt. He signed to Janet to keep silence.
"I came up meaning to warn you. I was afraid for you. I saw you standing by the tree, and I was running toward you, and all of a sudden I saw him, and the pistol, and——"
She paused and drooped her head. Dale pressed her hand and said:
"Well, Nellie?"
"I was afraid," she said, "and I turned and began to run away, and as I was running, it hit me." And, her confession ended, she sank into a little woebegone heap on the floor at his feet.
Dale understood now. She had been tempted by the hope of winning his love through his gratitude, and had not refused the false glory they all thrust upon her. Now she had heard her hopes were vain, that they had been vain even before that night, and in the misery of sin, and useless sin, she lay crying at his feet, not daring to look up at him.
He stood there awkwardly, as a man standswhen he feels more moved than he allows himself to show.
"Poor child!" he said, with a break in his voice. "Poor child!"
Janet caught him by the arm.
"What does she say? That she didn't save you?" she whispered eagerly. "That she was running away?"
Dale nodded, and Janet fell down beside Nellie, embracing her, and saying, half laughing, half crying: "O Nellie, how sweet, how sweet of you to have been a coward too!"
CHAPTER XXVIII.A Vision.The lawn at Dirkham Grange was a gay scene. The Institute was opened, the luncheon consumed, the Royal Duke gone, full to the last of graciousness, though the poor fellow was hungry for solitude and cigars; and now the society of the county was unbending in friendly condescension to the society of the town, and talking the whole thing over under the trees and beside the bright flower-beds. Lord Cransford, between Janet and Dale, mingled praises of the ode with congratulations on the engagement; no one would have guessed that he shared a son's disappointment. The Mayor indifferently dissembled his exultation over the whisper of a knighthood which a hint from his Royal Highness had set running through the company. Mrs. Johnstone sat placidly in an armchair, the ruby velvet spread in careful folds, while Sir Harry Fulmer paid her compliments, and wondered where his wife was, and how soon they might go; and his wife walked with the Squire, declaring in her impetuous way that Nellie Fane's deceit was the most beautiful and touching thing she hadever heard of, whereat the Squire tugged his whisker, and said that nobody was disposed to be hard on her. Mrs. Roberts had made her first public appearance, diligently attended by Dr. Spink, who said, but was disbelieved in saying, that she still needed constant care. Nellie Fane herself had been persuaded to come, on a promise that the Mayor should not be allowed to reopen the subject of the testimonial; and Arthur Angell, in whose breast hope was once more a sojourner, had led her to a retired walk, and was reading to her a set of verses, called "Love's Crime"; and Nellie shook her head, saying that there was no inducement to be good if everyone conspired to pet and pamper the wicked.Philip Hume sat alone under a spreading tree, looking on, and talking to nobody. The bustle of the morning, and the sumptuous midday meal worked together with the warm afternoon air and the distant sounds of the yeomanry band to make him a little drowsy, and he watched the people walking to and fro, and heard their chatter in a half-wakeful, half-sleeping state. And, strange as it seems in this workaday, skeptical age, he fell into a sort of trance, and visions of what should be were vouchsafed to him, and if the visions were not true, at least they had a look of truth.He saw a man, handsome still, for all that his thick hair was a little thinned by time and his waistcoat was broadening, and the man read in a mellow voice lines, which Philip did not hear very plainly, about the greatness ofEngland, the glory of the Throne, and the calmer judgment of circling years tempering the heat of youth. Then a stately dame touched him gently on the shoulder, saying that the verses were magnificent, but the carriage waited to take him to thelevée; and he rose to go with a smile, not seeming to notice a pale ghost, that clenched impotent shadowy hands in wrath and with a scowl shrank away. Suddenly, across this vision came the form of Mrs. Hodge, white-haired, but cheerful and buxom as of yore, and she said: "Well, Hume, she's made Arthur a happy man at last;" and the Mayor, who somehow happened to be there, wearing on his breast a large placard, inscribed "Sir James Hedger, Knight," added, quite in his old way: "We were all wrong, Mr. Hume, sir, except you, sir, beggin' your pardon." Then the Squire's voice broke in, as though in the course of an argument, and declared that it was nonsense to attribute Dale's change of views to anything except growing wisdom; and the phantom of Colonel Smith, a copy of "The Clarion" in his hand, answered: "Bosh!" And a crowd of quite indistinguishable, well-dressed shades gathered round the Colonel, and Philip heard them talking about the inevitable gravitation of culture and intelligence. But the Colonel still answered "Bosh!" and Philip did not hear the end of the matter, nor where the truth of it lay; for presently all the forms passed away, and he saw a little room, a little dingy room, and a gray-haired, slouching fellow in an old coat, smoking an old pipe and scribblingon foolscap, scribbling away far into the night, and then sitting and musing for a solitary half hour in front of his dying fire before he went to bed. There was something in this figure that made Philip curious, and he went nearer and looked. Hush! It was himself, and——He awoke with a start. Dale was smiling down on him with his old friendly smile, and saying to Janet Delane:"We shall never let this old chap leave us for long, shall we, Jan?"THE END.
A Vision.
The lawn at Dirkham Grange was a gay scene. The Institute was opened, the luncheon consumed, the Royal Duke gone, full to the last of graciousness, though the poor fellow was hungry for solitude and cigars; and now the society of the county was unbending in friendly condescension to the society of the town, and talking the whole thing over under the trees and beside the bright flower-beds. Lord Cransford, between Janet and Dale, mingled praises of the ode with congratulations on the engagement; no one would have guessed that he shared a son's disappointment. The Mayor indifferently dissembled his exultation over the whisper of a knighthood which a hint from his Royal Highness had set running through the company. Mrs. Johnstone sat placidly in an armchair, the ruby velvet spread in careful folds, while Sir Harry Fulmer paid her compliments, and wondered where his wife was, and how soon they might go; and his wife walked with the Squire, declaring in her impetuous way that Nellie Fane's deceit was the most beautiful and touching thing she hadever heard of, whereat the Squire tugged his whisker, and said that nobody was disposed to be hard on her. Mrs. Roberts had made her first public appearance, diligently attended by Dr. Spink, who said, but was disbelieved in saying, that she still needed constant care. Nellie Fane herself had been persuaded to come, on a promise that the Mayor should not be allowed to reopen the subject of the testimonial; and Arthur Angell, in whose breast hope was once more a sojourner, had led her to a retired walk, and was reading to her a set of verses, called "Love's Crime"; and Nellie shook her head, saying that there was no inducement to be good if everyone conspired to pet and pamper the wicked.
Philip Hume sat alone under a spreading tree, looking on, and talking to nobody. The bustle of the morning, and the sumptuous midday meal worked together with the warm afternoon air and the distant sounds of the yeomanry band to make him a little drowsy, and he watched the people walking to and fro, and heard their chatter in a half-wakeful, half-sleeping state. And, strange as it seems in this workaday, skeptical age, he fell into a sort of trance, and visions of what should be were vouchsafed to him, and if the visions were not true, at least they had a look of truth.
He saw a man, handsome still, for all that his thick hair was a little thinned by time and his waistcoat was broadening, and the man read in a mellow voice lines, which Philip did not hear very plainly, about the greatness ofEngland, the glory of the Throne, and the calmer judgment of circling years tempering the heat of youth. Then a stately dame touched him gently on the shoulder, saying that the verses were magnificent, but the carriage waited to take him to thelevée; and he rose to go with a smile, not seeming to notice a pale ghost, that clenched impotent shadowy hands in wrath and with a scowl shrank away. Suddenly, across this vision came the form of Mrs. Hodge, white-haired, but cheerful and buxom as of yore, and she said: "Well, Hume, she's made Arthur a happy man at last;" and the Mayor, who somehow happened to be there, wearing on his breast a large placard, inscribed "Sir James Hedger, Knight," added, quite in his old way: "We were all wrong, Mr. Hume, sir, except you, sir, beggin' your pardon." Then the Squire's voice broke in, as though in the course of an argument, and declared that it was nonsense to attribute Dale's change of views to anything except growing wisdom; and the phantom of Colonel Smith, a copy of "The Clarion" in his hand, answered: "Bosh!" And a crowd of quite indistinguishable, well-dressed shades gathered round the Colonel, and Philip heard them talking about the inevitable gravitation of culture and intelligence. But the Colonel still answered "Bosh!" and Philip did not hear the end of the matter, nor where the truth of it lay; for presently all the forms passed away, and he saw a little room, a little dingy room, and a gray-haired, slouching fellow in an old coat, smoking an old pipe and scribblingon foolscap, scribbling away far into the night, and then sitting and musing for a solitary half hour in front of his dying fire before he went to bed. There was something in this figure that made Philip curious, and he went nearer and looked. Hush! It was himself, and——
He awoke with a start. Dale was smiling down on him with his old friendly smile, and saying to Janet Delane:
"We shall never let this old chap leave us for long, shall we, Jan?"
THE END.
Twelfth Edition.THE PRISONER OFZENDA.By ANTHONY HOPE.16mo, buckram, gilt top, with frontispiece, 75 cents."The ingenious plot, the liveliness and spirit of the narrative, and its readable style."—Atlantic Monthly."A glorious story, which cannot be too warmly recommended to all who love a tale that stirs the blood. Perhaps not the least among its many good qualities is the fact that its chivalry is of the nineteenth, not of the sixteenth century; that it is a tale of brave men and true, and of a fair woman of to-day. The Englishman who saves the king ... is as interesting a knight as was Bayard.... The story holds the reader's attention from first to last."—Critic."The dash and galloping excitement of this rattling story."—London Punch."A more gallant, entrancing story has seldom been written."—Review of Reviews."It is not often that such a delightful novel falls into the reviewer's hands."—London Athæneum."A rattling good romance."—N. Y. Times."The plot is too original and audacious to be spoiled for the reader by outlining it. The author is a born story-teller, and has, moreover, a very pretty wit of his own."—The Outlook."A grand story.... It is dignified, quick in action, thrilling, terrible."—Chicago Herald.Second Edition.HENRY A. BEERS'SA SUBURBAN PASTORALAnd Five Other Tales of American Life, and Two Old English Legends. 16mo, buckram, gilt top, with frontispiece. 75 cents."No collection of short stories by an American writer, lately published, has made a more entertaining book ... differ greatly from the work of any other of the many New England writers whose names come to mind ... a trifle too much of the humor of the day is their single fault."—N. Y. Times."['A Suburban Pastoral'] so devoid of pretension or effort, so freshly and frankly written, so quiet in its humor, and with its suggestion of pathos so latent in the emotions it awakens ... hereafter we shall remember him among the sweetest, tenderest, and gravest of our story-tellers."—Mail and Express."'A Midwinter Night's Dream' is a beautiful example of writing which is permeated with delicate fancy.... 'Split Zephyrs' discusses many of those problems which you will hear debated almost every night in June under the elms and in old college haunts."—Life."A skill and delicacy worthy of Mr. Henry James."—Kate Field's Washington."Marked by powerful but artistically suppressed feeling."—Dial."Effective and thoroughly readable."—Outlook."Its ['A Suburban Pastoral'] description is realistic, its dialogue vivacious, and its situations dramatic. The seven other tales are entertaining, and each one is unique."—New York Observer."For some time there has not been published a better collection of stories."—Detroit Free Press.QUAKER IDYLS.By Mrs.S. M. H. Gardner, 16mo, buckram, with frontispiece, 75 cents.Twelfth Street MeetingandUncle Josephboth treat of the bashful Quaker in love, with a quiet humor and an effective but unobtrusive description of Quaker customs. TheTwo Gentlewomenwere once Friends; but one of them having become the widow of a fast young Englishman, they both take up the ways of the mother country. A courtly old colonel courts them both with rare impartiality.Our Little Neighborsis a sympathetic picture of childhood, with a quaintly humorous ending. Even more humorous isPamelia Tewksbury's Courtship, laid in central New York. Mrs. Gardner's treatment of this episode, though it recalls Miss Wilkins, can well bear the comparison. Next come theAnte-Bellum Letters, which occupy about a third of the book and make an excellent foil to the more demure tales which they interrupt like a sort of vigorous interlude. The Quakeress who writes them is suddenly plunged into the comparative dissipations of Boston, into the lively society of Harvard undergraduates, and into gay raiment that distresses her; but this lively intermezzo ends with a graver strain. The figures of the great Abolitionists are faintly seen, and at the trial of a poor negro boy, who is demanded as a fugitive slave, Lucretia Mott appears and sits by the prisoner, cheering him through the long night session of the court. The frontispiece represents this scene. The book closes with a quaint old story, way back in 1815, in which a romantic French boy, escaped from jail, and a Quakeress, more beautiful than her parents care to have her, figure prominently. There is a deep note of pathos in this tale, and the good influence of the Quakers in prison reform is shown, as their brave work for abolition has been in theAnte-Bellum Letters. Here and there a few lines give remarkable nature-pictures, as in the following:"The midsummer heat was upon the land. The red sun set in splendor, and the blood-red moon rose as in wrath."Jerome's John Ingerfield;The Woman of the Saeter, Silhouettes, Variety Patter, andThe Lease of the Cross-keys. The title-story (half the book) and the two that follow are in serious vein. With portrait of Jerome and illustrations. Small 16mo. 75 cents."This dainty little volume, contrived to look like a tall folio in miniature ... the creepy Norwegian ghost story (The Woman of the Saeter) ... the vague but picturesque sketch calledSilhouettes.... The first (John Ingerfield) is a very sweet and pathetic love story ... true to the best there is in human nature ... many diverse traits of character and striking incidents being compressed within its narrow limits.... It is a good thing to write an honest, wholesome, old-fashioned love story likeJohn Ingerfield."—New York Times."Rare combination of true pathos and thoroughly modern humor."—The Churchman."Variety PatterandThe Lease of the Cross-keysare in lighter vein; the former having delicious humorous touches, and the latter being in its entirety a very clever conceit"—Boston Times."A charming story."—Literary World."A charming little story."—London Athenæum."Quaint and attractive in the extreme."—Philadelphia Call."The Woman of the Saeteris weird and strange, and told with much art."—Outlook."An exquisite love story ... like fine gold in its value."—Chicago Herald."One of the sweetest, saddest stories we have ever read."—Chicago Times."One of the best short stories that has appeared in some time."—Detroit Free Press."A delightful story."—Hartford Post."... The book will not be put down until all are finished."—Baltimore American.HENRY HOLT & CO.,29 West 23d Street, New York.
Twelfth Edition.
THE PRISONER OFZENDA.
By ANTHONY HOPE.
16mo, buckram, gilt top, with frontispiece, 75 cents.
"The ingenious plot, the liveliness and spirit of the narrative, and its readable style."—Atlantic Monthly.
"A glorious story, which cannot be too warmly recommended to all who love a tale that stirs the blood. Perhaps not the least among its many good qualities is the fact that its chivalry is of the nineteenth, not of the sixteenth century; that it is a tale of brave men and true, and of a fair woman of to-day. The Englishman who saves the king ... is as interesting a knight as was Bayard.... The story holds the reader's attention from first to last."—Critic.
"The dash and galloping excitement of this rattling story."—London Punch.
"A more gallant, entrancing story has seldom been written."—Review of Reviews.
"It is not often that such a delightful novel falls into the reviewer's hands."—London Athæneum.
"A rattling good romance."—N. Y. Times.
"The plot is too original and audacious to be spoiled for the reader by outlining it. The author is a born story-teller, and has, moreover, a very pretty wit of his own."—The Outlook.
"A grand story.... It is dignified, quick in action, thrilling, terrible."—Chicago Herald.
Second Edition.
HENRY A. BEERS'S
A SUBURBAN PASTORAL
And Five Other Tales of American Life, and Two Old English Legends. 16mo, buckram, gilt top, with frontispiece. 75 cents.
"No collection of short stories by an American writer, lately published, has made a more entertaining book ... differ greatly from the work of any other of the many New England writers whose names come to mind ... a trifle too much of the humor of the day is their single fault."—N. Y. Times.
"['A Suburban Pastoral'] so devoid of pretension or effort, so freshly and frankly written, so quiet in its humor, and with its suggestion of pathos so latent in the emotions it awakens ... hereafter we shall remember him among the sweetest, tenderest, and gravest of our story-tellers."—Mail and Express.
"'A Midwinter Night's Dream' is a beautiful example of writing which is permeated with delicate fancy.... 'Split Zephyrs' discusses many of those problems which you will hear debated almost every night in June under the elms and in old college haunts."—Life.
"A skill and delicacy worthy of Mr. Henry James."—Kate Field's Washington.
"Marked by powerful but artistically suppressed feeling."—Dial.
"Effective and thoroughly readable."—Outlook.
"Its ['A Suburban Pastoral'] description is realistic, its dialogue vivacious, and its situations dramatic. The seven other tales are entertaining, and each one is unique."—New York Observer.
"For some time there has not been published a better collection of stories."—Detroit Free Press.
QUAKER IDYLS.
By Mrs.S. M. H. Gardner, 16mo, buckram, with frontispiece, 75 cents.
Twelfth Street MeetingandUncle Josephboth treat of the bashful Quaker in love, with a quiet humor and an effective but unobtrusive description of Quaker customs. TheTwo Gentlewomenwere once Friends; but one of them having become the widow of a fast young Englishman, they both take up the ways of the mother country. A courtly old colonel courts them both with rare impartiality.Our Little Neighborsis a sympathetic picture of childhood, with a quaintly humorous ending. Even more humorous isPamelia Tewksbury's Courtship, laid in central New York. Mrs. Gardner's treatment of this episode, though it recalls Miss Wilkins, can well bear the comparison. Next come theAnte-Bellum Letters, which occupy about a third of the book and make an excellent foil to the more demure tales which they interrupt like a sort of vigorous interlude. The Quakeress who writes them is suddenly plunged into the comparative dissipations of Boston, into the lively society of Harvard undergraduates, and into gay raiment that distresses her; but this lively intermezzo ends with a graver strain. The figures of the great Abolitionists are faintly seen, and at the trial of a poor negro boy, who is demanded as a fugitive slave, Lucretia Mott appears and sits by the prisoner, cheering him through the long night session of the court. The frontispiece represents this scene. The book closes with a quaint old story, way back in 1815, in which a romantic French boy, escaped from jail, and a Quakeress, more beautiful than her parents care to have her, figure prominently. There is a deep note of pathos in this tale, and the good influence of the Quakers in prison reform is shown, as their brave work for abolition has been in theAnte-Bellum Letters. Here and there a few lines give remarkable nature-pictures, as in the following:
"The midsummer heat was upon the land. The red sun set in splendor, and the blood-red moon rose as in wrath."
Jerome's John Ingerfield;
The Woman of the Saeter, Silhouettes, Variety Patter, andThe Lease of the Cross-keys. The title-story (half the book) and the two that follow are in serious vein. With portrait of Jerome and illustrations. Small 16mo. 75 cents.
"This dainty little volume, contrived to look like a tall folio in miniature ... the creepy Norwegian ghost story (The Woman of the Saeter) ... the vague but picturesque sketch calledSilhouettes.... The first (John Ingerfield) is a very sweet and pathetic love story ... true to the best there is in human nature ... many diverse traits of character and striking incidents being compressed within its narrow limits.... It is a good thing to write an honest, wholesome, old-fashioned love story likeJohn Ingerfield."—New York Times.
"Rare combination of true pathos and thoroughly modern humor."—The Churchman.
"Variety PatterandThe Lease of the Cross-keysare in lighter vein; the former having delicious humorous touches, and the latter being in its entirety a very clever conceit"—Boston Times.
"A charming story."—Literary World.
"A charming little story."—London Athenæum.
"Quaint and attractive in the extreme."—Philadelphia Call.
"The Woman of the Saeteris weird and strange, and told with much art."—Outlook.
"An exquisite love story ... like fine gold in its value."—Chicago Herald.
"One of the sweetest, saddest stories we have ever read."—Chicago Times.
"One of the best short stories that has appeared in some time."—Detroit Free Press.
"A delightful story."—Hartford Post.
"... The book will not be put down until all are finished."—Baltimore American.
HENRY HOLT & CO.,
29 West 23d Street, New York.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES—Plain print and punctuation errors fixed.—The transcriber of this project created the book cover image using the front cover of the original book. The image is placed in the public domain.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES—Plain print and punctuation errors fixed.—The transcriber of this project created the book cover image using the front cover of the original book. The image is placed in the public domain.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
—Plain print and punctuation errors fixed.
—The transcriber of this project created the book cover image using the front cover of the original book. The image is placed in the public domain.