A gust of wind shook the mimosa, and on her bowed head drifted the pink silk filaments, powdering her brown coil and puffs.
Very gently Mr. Herriott took the trembling little hands, kissed the palms, and, drawing her slowly, tenderly toward him, lifted her arms to his neck, holding them there.
With a low, broken cry she surrendered.
"Mr. Noel, you have broken my heart."
He waited to steady his voice.
"My proud darling, there seemed no other way. When it heals, please God, I shall have my throne inside."
With her face hidden on his shoulder, he held her close, his cheek against her hair, and each knew how fiercely the heart of the other throbbed. After some moments, he tightened the arm clasping her waist, and his deep, passionately tender tone caressed like a velvet glove.
"I don't know how many years I have longed for the touch of your lips. Even as a child you never allowed me to kiss you; and, except your father, I am sure no man ever has. My sweetheart, if indeed you are learning to love me, can you, will you give me now what I want—my own wife's pure lips?"
She crimsoned to the tips of her small ears, and clung to him, not daring to meet his eyes.
"One memorable night, when two of my dogs froze at my feet, I sat under the lee of my sledge, waiting for a gale of sleet to howl itself to rest. I fell asleep and had a heavenly dream, in which you came and kissed me."
"Mr. Herriott, you cannot love me now as you did before that horrible journey on the cars when your words seemed to scorch—brand me. I am afraid—I am afraid——"
He felt her tremble.
"My darling, I love you infinitely more. You were never so sacred, so dear as to-day. Of what can you feel afraid now? In my dream you were more generous. I can take, but I prefer to receive the blessed seal I hope you will give me, as holy assurance that you are entirely my own."
Shyly she turned her flushed face towards his, one hand, quivering like a frightened bird, softly drew his brown cheek closer, and the proud, beautiful, vestal lips nestled and clung to her husband's.
Sitting beside her on the bench, he said, as his brilliant, happy eyes studied her face:
"Will you please tell me when you began really to care for me?"
"What can that matter now? Do not make me look back into shadows I wish to forget. All our light shines ahead."
"I should like to fix the date of my coronation, that I may compute accurately my despotic reign from the hour I entered into possession of my kingdom. Tell me, sweetheart; why should you shrink?"
"Do you recall that last morning at home, when you came from the beach followed by the dogs? Seeing me at the window, you took off your cap and waved it. As I looked down at you then, something strange seemed suddenly to stir and wake up and tremble in my heart. I did not understand; it was a new feeling, and I was so wounded and tortured over many things I could not analyze it; supposed it a part of my punishment. I had seen you look better. Your boating suit and full evening dress were certainly more becoming, but in some unaccountable, extraordinary way that grey cap wave, and the peculiar expression I had never before seen in your eyes, brought you closer to me than you had ever been. When I sat alone in your smoking-room and saw the strapped trunks and your fur overcoat—like a coffin and a pall—a terribly bitter wave rolled over me at the thought of giving you up. I began to be jealous of Amos, and I envied the dear old dogs the tender caress of your stroking hand. At the last you coldly said good-bye; but when you caught, strained me against you, I found out what it all meant. I knew then that woman's heritage of sorrow was mine, and that my heart followed you into Polar night. The ache that began that day at Greyledge grew and tortured me until—I felt your arms around me once more."
He lifted her left hand and kissed it, pressing the ring against his face.
"Why did not you tell me? I should have been spared so much brutal bitterness of feeling."
"It was impossible after all the harsh, cruel things you had deemed it your duty to say to me, and you would have scouted such a sudden change of feeling as inconceivable, as absurd. The strangeness of the revelation overwhelmed, frightened me; I was more astonished than you would have been. Tell you? Mr. Noel, I would sooner have gone to the stake."
"Your silence tied me to one. Men are perverse devils. I hated the sight of this wedding ring; I longed to melt it in a crucible in my laboratory. You will never understand the storm that raged within me that day on the train when you hummed Kücken and laid the baby on your breast. Every time you lifted your hand and patted the poor little creature, that gold band danced and flashed in my eyes like a mocking imp. But your ring had its innings. After a year my temper cooled. Day and night I found myself drifting back more hopelessly to you; and always before me your little white hand flashed that circle—signet of my ownership—because you had clung to it and declared 'it was the badge of your loyalty.' I saw it in the blue gulfs of icebergs, in the wonderful orange radiance of auroral arches, in the glare of low, tired suns that could not set, in the unearthly lustre of moons holding vigil over a silent desert wrapped in its shroud of ice, and in the ghostly phosphorescence of snow-mantled glaciers. Always, everywhere, that dear ringed hand beckoned like a beacon. I knew you did not love me; I was grimly sure you never would; but the assurance that no other man could ever claim lips denied to me, that you would proudly hold and keep your precious self sacred to one whose name you bore, comforted me."
He took her face in his palms, bending close his handsome head, and a mist dimmed the sparkle in his magnetic eyes.
"My darling, the coldest night I ever spent, when lost on the 'Great Ice,' where a snow-storm obliterated sledge tracks and death seemed inevitable, the remembered touch of your dear arms clinging around my neck, the pressure of your face on my breast, thrilled my heart, fired my blood, and warmed my freezing body. I missed the Pole; I nearly lost my life; but, ah, thank God, better than either, more precious than all, I have found at last, and I own the pure heart of my wife."
INEZBEULAHMACARIAST. ELMOVASHTIINFELICEAT THE MERCY OF TIBERIUSA SPECKLED BIRD
INEZBEULAHMACARIAST. ELMOVASHTIINFELICEAT THE MERCY OF TIBERIUSA SPECKLED BIRD
"Who has not read with rare delight the novels of Augusta Evans? Her strange, wonderful and fascinating style; the profound depths to which she sinks the probe into human nature, touching its most sacred chords and springs; the intense interest thrown around her characters, and the very marked peculiarities of her principal figures, conspire to give an unusual interest to the works of this eminent Southern authoress."
READ WHAT IS SAID OF IT.
"It is distinctly one of the most interesting books of the year from any point of view."—Rochester Sunday Herald.
"It is many a day since I have read so fascinating a book of reminiscences. Many a day—or perhaps I should have said a 'night'—for this volume has given me delight during hours, when, according to the laws of nature, I should have been asleep."—Newell Dwight Hillis.
"One of the most simple, naive and straightforward books ever written. It fairly reeks with personality.... No man living has had such interesting association with so many interesting people."—Home Journal.
"Adorned by many pictures, never before published."—Detroit Journal.
"Possesses unparalleled attractions."—Boston Journal.
"Major Pond goes deep into his subject, furnishing pen-portraits that are admirably clear and graphic."—The Mail and Express.
"The whole book, stuffed as it is with anecdotes and extracts from personal letters, is marvelously interesting."—Boston Transcript.
"All the world loves a teller of stories, and readers will surely take approvingly to the man who gives them so much of entertaining reading as is found in Major Pond's 600 pages of bright personal description."—N.Y. Times.
"Shining by reflected light, its pages literally teem with interesting anecdotes of many sorts."—Chicago Evening Post.
"Originality stamps the volume, copiously illustrated with portraits."—The Boston Globe.
"It has a thousand charms, and a thousand points of interest. It is full of striking gems of thought, rare descriptions of men and places; biographical bits that delight one by their variety, and the distinction of those alluded to. From a literary view it is as interesting as Disraeli's famous "Curiosities of Literature."—Philadelphia Item.
"If any more charming and interesting book has appeared this season, it has not come to our notice. The get-up is worthy of the matter of the book."—Philadelphia Evening Telegraph.
Ithobal was the first African explorer we know about. He was a sea captain of Tyre, who rescued and married an African Princess, and then induced the King of Egypt to put him in charge of a voyage of exploration of the wonderful land of his wife's birth.
After a voyage of fifteen thousand miles around Africa, he returns after numerous and exciting adventures, which bring out almost every feature of African life and scenery. Ithobal relates the story of his enterprise in a discourse of seven days before the throne of Pharaoh, who crowns him with honors.
Sir Henry M. Stanley, in a letter to the author, says of it:—"You have added greatly to the happiness of many of your race by the production of so unique a poem, so rich in the beauties of the sweet English language."
Sir Henry M. Stanley, in a letter to the author, says of it:—"You have added greatly to the happiness of many of your race by the production of so unique a poem, so rich in the beauties of the sweet English language."
Other able critics who have read the blind poet's new epic poem unite in calling it even better than the old favorite, "The Light of Asia."
"This is a thoroughly enjoyable detective story, written in good, crisp style, and with a decided surprise in the last pages. It is adroitly contrived that almost every character in the book shall be suspected of the crime of attempted murder before the actual culprit is discovered. The characters are excellently differentiated, and the story is vastly diverting, nor are there any repulsive features about the book. It is a stirring tale and will enliven a dull evening successfully."—Chicago Tribune.
This story of the South in the first half of the eighteenth century, opens with one of the strangest episodes in the early history of South Carolina—the pursuit and capture by the Governor of Carolina of a pirate vessel, full, not of treasure, but of English men and women; and the selling of those same unfortunate voyagers as bond servants in the colony. Doris Kingsley, a child stolen from the streets of London, is the youngest of the party, and is the heroine of the story. Doris Kingsley is a novel of absorbing interest, dramatic and historically true.
In "Old Jed Prouty" the reading public is presented with a New England character story of unusual interest and merit. The plot, although not an involved one, hides enough mystery to lend the spice of the unknown to the reader's zest, and the simple and natural dénouement emphasizes the high moral ethics of the story, and throws into strong relief the deep human sentiments that dominate the tale. Standing out above all, infusing into the fiber of every chapter the rugged sincerity, the homely wit and the quaint philosophy of New England, is the central character about which the pivot of the story turns, "Old Jed Prouty," real in name and real in goodness, who at the time of his life, some thirty years since, was a landmark in the Valley of the Penobscot.
"'John Winslow' is one of those inviting books of country life of which the best part of 'Eben Holden' has come to be the accepted type. Plenty of shrewd common sense in the chief character, a dash of love on the side, an incidental and inevitable bit of human wickedness—but everything in the picture and the framing attractive. This is a book for a wide reach among readers."—N. Y. World.
"Properly ranks with 'Eben Holden,' 'David Harum,' and 'Quincy Adams Sawyer.' The four may be put in a class by themselves as distinctive types of homespun Americans."—The North American.
"Worthy to live with 'David Harum' and 'Eben Holden.'"—Publishers' Weekly.
Tells what occupation to adopt, and what line of life to follow, what associates and partners to choose, how to recognize the possibilities and limitations of our friends and ourselves, and of other important matters to human life, including suggestions on marriage, being mainly culled from the minds of ancient and modern philosophers. Illustrated, cloth bound.
A clever, well-written story, full of love and pathos, and thrilling with dramatic crises. Each step of the domestic tragedy is skilfully portrayed, until the final climax is reached.
"Its author has made it a powerful, telling story to read."—N.Y. World.
This is a wonderfully interesting story, and will find a welcome with all who love to read of deeds of chivalry.
"It is a clean, clear and clever story of chivalry at its best, and will find a great many well-pleased readers."—New York World. Cloth bound, illustrated.
"It has the dash and tinge of reality that makes you feel as if you were in the midst of it all."—Detroit Free Press.
"The many readers who followed with bated breath the wild adventures of Captain Kettle in the book named for him, will welcome Cutcliffe Hyne's new collection of tales dealing with that remarkable sea dog. The volume is well called 'A Master of Fortune.'"—Philadelphia Press.
"Nobody who has followed the gallant sailor—diminutive, but oh, my!—in his previous adventures around the earth, is going to miss this red-hot volume of marvelous exploits."—N. Y. World.
The best sea story since the days of Marryat. Captain Kettle is a devil-may-care sea dog, half pirate and half preacher. The author carries him through many hairbreadth escapes and makes him a character that will live long in the annals of fiction. The success of this book is marvelous.
TheNew York Worldsays: "Mr. Harrigan gave to his Mulligan dramas the most distinctly typical character plays which have ever been seen on the native stage. They were studied and displayed straight from the life of New York and their popularity was unbounded. His book is one of the most generally interesting of the new season's output."
It is a marvelously entertaining novel, possessing a keenness of wit and humor unsurpassed by any recent work. All the characters stand out, as true to life, as natural and as vivid as if portrayed by Dickens.
"No more charming historic war story has ever been written. It is Captain King's best, and bearing, as it does, on the great battle of Mission Ridge, although the story is woven in fiction, it adds an invaluable record of that gigantic contest between the two great armies."
"The characters are real, their emotions natural, and the romance that is interwoven is delightful. It is wholesome and one of General King's best, if not his best book."—N. Y. Journal.
"From the first chapter to the last page the interest of the reader never fags. General King has written no more brilliant or stirring novel than 'Norman Holt.'"—N. Y. Press.
"'John Henry' has just 'butted' its way in between the literary bars and capered over the book counters to the tune of twelve thousand copies before its publishers could recover their breath.
"Every page is as catchy as a bar from a popular song.
"The slang is as correct, original and smart as the newest handshake from London.
"In the lottery of humorous books 'John Henry' seems to approximate the capital prize."—N. Y. Journal.
"All who have laughed over 'Billy Baxter' will heartily enjoy this book."—The Bookseller, Newsdealer and Stationer.
"'The King of Honey Island' bears quite as many marks of the genius of the author as does 'Alice of Old Vincennes,' with the additional charm, perhaps of more buoyancy and beauty of thought and expression. In 'Alice' Mr. Thompson plumed himself as a master word painter. In 'The King of Honey Island' he developed into a veritable American Ouida, for his descriptive powers are marvelous. Like the true artist that he was, he paints Nature as it looks, not as it is, so that the reader, in glimpsing the battle of New Orleans, hears, almost, the cannon's roar."—The Topeka Capital.