CHAPTER XXXV"I am Vera Anerley," said the pale girl, speaking in clear tones of deadly meaning. "I have come to tell your wife that the case against her is complete; that she may be arrested at any moment for the murder of Victor Mercier!"Joan gave a faint cry, and buried her wet, dishevelled head in Vansittart's coat-sleeve."Hush, darling, I am here!" he tenderly said. Then, supporting Joan's fainting form, which was already a dead weight, he looked with cool scorn, with stern defiance, at the slender, black-clad figure, at the white, miserable face with those menacing eyes."Case, indeed," he exclaimed with scathing contempt. "A jealous woman's vengeance, you should say! But your miserable plot to destroy my injured wife, woman, will succeed in injuring no one but yourself. I have this morning learnt every detail of the trumped-up charge, and given my instructions for the defence. If, indeed, the affair will go any further after my deposition on oath that on the night that--man--died--my future wife was with me until she met her maid to return home. And now, since you have succeeded in making Lady Vansittart ill, I must ask you to quit the house--I will have you driven to the station, if you like--"Vera interrupted him with a groan."I forgot!" she wailed. "I forgot--a man will perjure himself to save the woman he loves! But your lies will fail to save her, my lord! Husbands and wives are nothing in law, in a murder case! If you want to save her, you must take her away!"With a sob she turned on her heel and went out. Vansittart gathered Joan in his arms, and sinking into a chair tried to kiss her back to life. "My darling, I know all! I will save you!" he repeated passionately. What could she have been doing? She must have been exposed to the whole fury of the storm. Had the vindictive creature killed her? He had thought himself hopelessly crushed, body and soul, when he arrived at his lawyers' to find the distracted Sir Thomas with his awful tale of the charge to be brought against his niece, which Paul Naz had in compassion forewarned him of. But the sight of his darling--who looked dead or dying--who lay like a stone in his arms and hardly seemed to breathe--brought back life and energy, if it augmented his despair.Her garments were wringing wet--what a frightful state she was in! With a half-frantic wonder what he had best do, he lifted her in his arms, so strong in his anguish that she seemed a mere featherweight, and carrying her upstairs to her room by a side staircase that was little used, laid her on the bed, and rang for Julie. While a man was despatched in hot haste for the doctor, the two cut and dragged off Joan's soaking garments, and vainly endeavoured to chafe some warmth into her icy limbs. But at last insensibility had come to the rescue of Victor Mercier's unfortunate dupe. Joan lay inert and senseless, and when the old doctor who had attended a couple of generations of Vansittarts in their Oxfordshire home came in, his wonted cheeriness changed to gravity.Nothing could be done but wait patiently for the return of consciousness, and telegraph for nurses. He could make no prognosis whatever at that stage, but that Lady Vansittart's health was in a critical condition."Do you mean that she may not recover?" asked Vansittart. They had adjourned to Joan's boudoir, leaving Julie and the housekeeper in temporary charge of the patient.Old Doctor Walters shrugged his shoulders and raised his shaggy eyebrows. Vansittart was answered."When I tell you that I hope to God my wife will die, you will understand there is something terrible in all this!" he exclaimed--and the tone of his voice, as much as the meaning conveyed by such a speech, made the old man sit up in his chair aghast.But he was still more horrified when the unhappy man he had known and tended since childhood told him the miserable story as he had gathered it from Joan herself, and from the dreadful tale told to Sir Thomas in its entirety by Paul Naz: the tale of a romantic schoolgirl secretly wooed and married by a man who immediately afterwards absconded, as he was "wanted" by the police on a charge of theft and fraud: her foolish dream dispelled when she learnt that fact, hiding her secret from the uncle and aunt who had adopted her; then, as the years went by and the husband-in-name made no sign, hoping against hope, and giving way to her great love for a man who adored her. Then, just as they were promised to each other, the man's reappearance with threats of exposure, his compelling her visits to his rooms, and her succumbing to the temptation of mixing morphia in his brandy. The one item unknown was Joan's motive for drugging Mercier. So the case looked terribly black to Vansittart and his friend in need, his good old doctor.Good--and tenderhearted, for at once he offered to see them through their trouble--to the end."If the police appear with a warrant they cannot refuse to listen to me," he said. "So I shall take up my abode here, and leave my patients to my partner and our assistant."The honeymoon was waning in the most dismal of fashions. The house was wrapped in gloom. Joan had recovered consciousness to suffer agonies of pain, and fall into the delirium of fever. The prolonged chill of being the sport of the storm, with so terrible a shock to follow, had resulted in pneumonia. A specialist was summoned from town. He gave no hope. When his fiat was pronounced a look of relief came upon Vansittart's worn, lined features. The specialist went away wondering, but old Doctor Walters understood.Then the stricken husband took up his position at his wife's pillow, and banished every one. Whatever his life might contain in the future of hideous retrospection, for those few short hours left he would watch his erring darling yield up her soul to the great Judge who alone knew the frail clay he had made, without any human soul witnessing his agony.Joan had been raving, madly, incoherently of the past and present, tossing and writhing, now and then clamouring and groaning. But a few minutes after Vansittart had banished the nurses and taken up his position by her side, she seemed to grow calmer.Was it possible that at least she might die in peace, free from those horrible fantasies, those cruel pains?He watched her anxiously hour after hour. As the delirium abated the restlessness ceased, and she seemed to fall asleep. He had come to her at midnight. When the grey dawn crept into the room Joan was asleep, and as he lay and gazed wearily at her, his head drooped until it rested on the pillow.After a succession of wild, tormenting dreams--a purgatory of horrible physical sufferings--Joan slept. She was vaguely conscious of Vansittart's nearness, vaguely sensible that relief had come. The sleep was like heaven after hell.Then at last another kind of dream was added to her sense of slumber. She felt that something greater and nobler had been added to her life, and that it was all around and about. In the tremendous vastness and solidity of the new influence all seemed petty, small; she knew that she, Vansittart, Mercier, Vera, all were but dancing specks in a gorgeous sunlight.....Vansittart awoke with a start, a feeling of guilt, fear, and a pain in his arm from some heavy weight.Then a horrible cry startled the nurse who was keeping vigil in the next room. She rushed in and up to the bed.* * * * *The following day three stalwart men descended from the quick train from London and chartered a fly to drive them to Lord Vansittart's."A fine place," said one, almost regretfully--he was young, with a fresh colour, and his errand seemed ghastly to him--as they drove in at the open gates, past a lodge which was to all appearance empty."Yes," said the eldest of the trio. "Dear me," he added, looking out as the fly passed out of the lime avenue. "What a melancholy looking house! All the blinds down, too!"Arriving at the hall-door, the oldest and sternest-looking emerged and asked to see Lord Vansittart. The porter looked impressed, but unhesitatingly admitted him, and conducted him to the library, leaving him with a grave "I will tell his lordship.""Strange; he did not ask who I was or what I wanted," murmured the man to himself. The silence in the great mansion was almost oppressive. He heard the servant's footsteps, distant voices, the clang of a closing door, then a slight pattering, which grew gradually more distinct, and seemed to keep pace with the beats of his pulse. Advancing footsteps!"They have heard, and they have all gone; the man is coming back with some fine tale or another," he told himself, exasperatedly. As the door opened he turned with ready resentment, which gave place to a startled, uncomfortable sensation as in the ghastly man in deep black who entered he recognised Lord Vansittart."I am very sorry, my Lord, but I have a most painful duty to perform," he began, taking the warrant from his pocket. "I am compelled to arrest Lady Vansittart for the wilful murder of Victor Mercier on the --th of June last."Lord Vansittart bowed, asked to see the warrant, and then slowly said, "If you will come this way, I will take you to her ladyship, who has a complete answer to the charge."The detective bowed, passing his hand across his lips to assure himself that he was not smiling--he had no wish to wound the wretched husband of a miserable murderess--and followed the proprietor of the richly-furnished mansion across the hall, up the grand staircase, and along the corridor. Vansittart paused at a door, opened it, and entered.The detective followed, half suspicious, half uneasy. The room was hung with white--everywhere were piles, masses of red flowers. On the white-hung bed lay more blood-red blossoms. Lord Vansittart went up to it with bowed head, and folding back the sheet that was scattered with the crimson blooms, showed a beautiful waxen face surrounded by close-woven gleaming hair: waxen hands folded meekly on the breast."Good God! Dead!" The detective recognized her--he had no doubt as to the fact--but he felt it with a shock."No," said Lord Vansittart, grimly, turning to him with a look which he afterwards confided to his wife was the worst experience of his hard-working and disillusionary existence. "Alive! Men may torture and kill our bodies, man, but who can kill the soul?"THE END.Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.* * * * * * * *Novels by Guy Boothby.SPECIAL AND ORIGINAL DESIGNS.Each volume attractively Illustrated by Stanley L. Wood and others.Crown 8vo, Cloth Gilt. Trimmed Edges, 5s.MY STRANGEST CASEFAREWELL, NIKOLA!SHEILAH McLEODMY INDIAN QUEENLONG LIVE THE KING!A SAILOR'S BRIDEA PRINCE OF SWINDLERSA MAKER OF NATIONSTHE RED RAT'S DAUGHTERLOVE MADE MANIFESTPHAROS, THE EGYPTIANACROSS THE WORLD FOR A WIFETHE LUST OF HATEBUSHIGRAMSTHE FASCINATION OF THE KINGDR. NIKOLATHE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVILA BID FOR FORTUNE; or, Dr. Nikola's VendettaIN STRANGE COMPANY: A Story of Chili and the Southern SeasTHE MARRIAGE OF ESTHER: A Torres Straits Sketch.WORKS BYE. Phillips Oppenheim.The Illustrated London Newssays:--"Humdrum is the very last word you could apply to (a tale by) E. P. Oppenheim, which reminds you of one of those Chinese nests of boxes, one inside the other. You have plot within plot, wheel within wheel, mystery within mystery, till you are almost dizzy."The British Weeklysays:--"Mr. Oppenheim has boundless imagination and distinct skill. He paints in broad, vivid colours; yet, audacious as he is, he never outsteps the possible. There is good thrilling mystery in his books, and not a few excellent characters."THE GREAT AWAKENING.Illustrated by F. H. TOWNSEND. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s.THE SURVIVOR.Illustrated by STANLEY L. WOOD. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s.A MILLIONAIRE OF YESTERDAY.Illustrated by STANLEY L. WOOD. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s.THE MYSTERY OF MR. BERNARD BROWN.Illustrated. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.THE WORLD'S GREAT SNARE.Illustrated by J. AMBROSE WALTON. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.A DAUGHTER OF THE MARIONIS.Illustrated by ADOLF THIEDE. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.THE MAN AND HIS KINGDOM.Illustrated by J. AMBROSE WALTON. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN.Illustrated by J. AMBROSE WALTON. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.AS A MAN LIVES.Illustrated by STANLEY L. WOOD. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.A MONK OF CRUTA.Illustrated by WARNE BROWNE. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.Novels by Joseph Hocking.Crown 8vo, Cloth Gilt, 3/6 each. Each volume uniform.GREATER LOVE. Illustrated by GORDON BROWNE.LEST WE FORGET. Illustrated by J. BARNARD DAVIS.THE PURPLE ROBE. Illustrated by J. BARNARD DAVIS.THE SCARLET WOMAN. Illustrated by SYDNEY COWELL.THE BIRTHRIGHT. Illustrated by HAROLD PIFFARD.MISTRESS NANCY MOLESWORTH. Illustrated by F. H. TOWNSEND.FIELDS OF FAIR RENOWN. With Frontispiece and Vignette by J. BARNARD DAVIS.ALL MEN ARE LIARS. With Frontispiece and Vignette by GORDON BROWNE.ISHMAEL PENGELLY: An Outcast. With Frontispiece and Vignette by W. S. STACEY.THE STORY OF ANDREW FAIRFAX. With Frontispiece and Vignette by GEO. HUTCHINSON.AND SHALL TRELAWNEY DIE? Illustrated by LANCELOT SPEED.JABEZ EASTERBROOK. With Frontispiece and Vignette by STANLEY L. WOOD.WEAPONS OF MYSTERY. With Frontispiece and Vignette.Z1LLAH. With Frontispiece by POWELL CHASE.THE MONK OF MAR-SABA. With Frontispiece and Vignette by W. S. STACEY.Some Magazines areMERELY MASCULINE....Others areFRIVOLOUSLY FEMININE.... THE ...WINDSORStands alone asThe Illustrated Magazinefor Men and Women.ITS STORIES--Serial and Short alike--are by the leading; Novelists of the day; Its Articles, ranging over every branch of our complex modern life, are by recognised Specialists; Its Illustrations represent the high-water mark of current Black-and-White Art.These features combine to make The Windsor's contents, month by month, a popular theme for conversation in circles that are weary of the trivialities of the common-place periodicals.In addition to its strong interest for MEN and WOMEN, the Windsor makes a feature of publishing the Best Studies of Child-Life that the modern cult of youth has yet produced in fictional literature.The WINDSOR'S recent and present Contributors include:--Rudyard KiplingMrs. P. A. SteelS. R. CrockettCutcliffe HyneMax PembertonHall CaineE. NesbitGuy BoothbyIan MaclarenFrankfort MooreAnthony HopeEthel TurnerRobert BarrBarry PainGilbert ParkerWARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED.*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKA WOMAN MARTYR***
CHAPTER XXXV
"I am Vera Anerley," said the pale girl, speaking in clear tones of deadly meaning. "I have come to tell your wife that the case against her is complete; that she may be arrested at any moment for the murder of Victor Mercier!"
Joan gave a faint cry, and buried her wet, dishevelled head in Vansittart's coat-sleeve.
"Hush, darling, I am here!" he tenderly said. Then, supporting Joan's fainting form, which was already a dead weight, he looked with cool scorn, with stern defiance, at the slender, black-clad figure, at the white, miserable face with those menacing eyes.
"Case, indeed," he exclaimed with scathing contempt. "A jealous woman's vengeance, you should say! But your miserable plot to destroy my injured wife, woman, will succeed in injuring no one but yourself. I have this morning learnt every detail of the trumped-up charge, and given my instructions for the defence. If, indeed, the affair will go any further after my deposition on oath that on the night that--man--died--my future wife was with me until she met her maid to return home. And now, since you have succeeded in making Lady Vansittart ill, I must ask you to quit the house--I will have you driven to the station, if you like--"
Vera interrupted him with a groan.
"I forgot!" she wailed. "I forgot--a man will perjure himself to save the woman he loves! But your lies will fail to save her, my lord! Husbands and wives are nothing in law, in a murder case! If you want to save her, you must take her away!"
With a sob she turned on her heel and went out. Vansittart gathered Joan in his arms, and sinking into a chair tried to kiss her back to life. "My darling, I know all! I will save you!" he repeated passionately. What could she have been doing? She must have been exposed to the whole fury of the storm. Had the vindictive creature killed her? He had thought himself hopelessly crushed, body and soul, when he arrived at his lawyers' to find the distracted Sir Thomas with his awful tale of the charge to be brought against his niece, which Paul Naz had in compassion forewarned him of. But the sight of his darling--who looked dead or dying--who lay like a stone in his arms and hardly seemed to breathe--brought back life and energy, if it augmented his despair.
Her garments were wringing wet--what a frightful state she was in! With a half-frantic wonder what he had best do, he lifted her in his arms, so strong in his anguish that she seemed a mere featherweight, and carrying her upstairs to her room by a side staircase that was little used, laid her on the bed, and rang for Julie. While a man was despatched in hot haste for the doctor, the two cut and dragged off Joan's soaking garments, and vainly endeavoured to chafe some warmth into her icy limbs. But at last insensibility had come to the rescue of Victor Mercier's unfortunate dupe. Joan lay inert and senseless, and when the old doctor who had attended a couple of generations of Vansittarts in their Oxfordshire home came in, his wonted cheeriness changed to gravity.
Nothing could be done but wait patiently for the return of consciousness, and telegraph for nurses. He could make no prognosis whatever at that stage, but that Lady Vansittart's health was in a critical condition.
"Do you mean that she may not recover?" asked Vansittart. They had adjourned to Joan's boudoir, leaving Julie and the housekeeper in temporary charge of the patient.
Old Doctor Walters shrugged his shoulders and raised his shaggy eyebrows. Vansittart was answered.
"When I tell you that I hope to God my wife will die, you will understand there is something terrible in all this!" he exclaimed--and the tone of his voice, as much as the meaning conveyed by such a speech, made the old man sit up in his chair aghast.
But he was still more horrified when the unhappy man he had known and tended since childhood told him the miserable story as he had gathered it from Joan herself, and from the dreadful tale told to Sir Thomas in its entirety by Paul Naz: the tale of a romantic schoolgirl secretly wooed and married by a man who immediately afterwards absconded, as he was "wanted" by the police on a charge of theft and fraud: her foolish dream dispelled when she learnt that fact, hiding her secret from the uncle and aunt who had adopted her; then, as the years went by and the husband-in-name made no sign, hoping against hope, and giving way to her great love for a man who adored her. Then, just as they were promised to each other, the man's reappearance with threats of exposure, his compelling her visits to his rooms, and her succumbing to the temptation of mixing morphia in his brandy. The one item unknown was Joan's motive for drugging Mercier. So the case looked terribly black to Vansittart and his friend in need, his good old doctor.
Good--and tenderhearted, for at once he offered to see them through their trouble--to the end.
"If the police appear with a warrant they cannot refuse to listen to me," he said. "So I shall take up my abode here, and leave my patients to my partner and our assistant."
The honeymoon was waning in the most dismal of fashions. The house was wrapped in gloom. Joan had recovered consciousness to suffer agonies of pain, and fall into the delirium of fever. The prolonged chill of being the sport of the storm, with so terrible a shock to follow, had resulted in pneumonia. A specialist was summoned from town. He gave no hope. When his fiat was pronounced a look of relief came upon Vansittart's worn, lined features. The specialist went away wondering, but old Doctor Walters understood.
Then the stricken husband took up his position at his wife's pillow, and banished every one. Whatever his life might contain in the future of hideous retrospection, for those few short hours left he would watch his erring darling yield up her soul to the great Judge who alone knew the frail clay he had made, without any human soul witnessing his agony.
Joan had been raving, madly, incoherently of the past and present, tossing and writhing, now and then clamouring and groaning. But a few minutes after Vansittart had banished the nurses and taken up his position by her side, she seemed to grow calmer.
Was it possible that at least she might die in peace, free from those horrible fantasies, those cruel pains?
He watched her anxiously hour after hour. As the delirium abated the restlessness ceased, and she seemed to fall asleep. He had come to her at midnight. When the grey dawn crept into the room Joan was asleep, and as he lay and gazed wearily at her, his head drooped until it rested on the pillow.
After a succession of wild, tormenting dreams--a purgatory of horrible physical sufferings--Joan slept. She was vaguely conscious of Vansittart's nearness, vaguely sensible that relief had come. The sleep was like heaven after hell.
Then at last another kind of dream was added to her sense of slumber. She felt that something greater and nobler had been added to her life, and that it was all around and about. In the tremendous vastness and solidity of the new influence all seemed petty, small; she knew that she, Vansittart, Mercier, Vera, all were but dancing specks in a gorgeous sunlight.....
Vansittart awoke with a start, a feeling of guilt, fear, and a pain in his arm from some heavy weight.
Then a horrible cry startled the nurse who was keeping vigil in the next room. She rushed in and up to the bed.
* * * * *
The following day three stalwart men descended from the quick train from London and chartered a fly to drive them to Lord Vansittart's.
"A fine place," said one, almost regretfully--he was young, with a fresh colour, and his errand seemed ghastly to him--as they drove in at the open gates, past a lodge which was to all appearance empty.
"Yes," said the eldest of the trio. "Dear me," he added, looking out as the fly passed out of the lime avenue. "What a melancholy looking house! All the blinds down, too!"
Arriving at the hall-door, the oldest and sternest-looking emerged and asked to see Lord Vansittart. The porter looked impressed, but unhesitatingly admitted him, and conducted him to the library, leaving him with a grave "I will tell his lordship."
"Strange; he did not ask who I was or what I wanted," murmured the man to himself. The silence in the great mansion was almost oppressive. He heard the servant's footsteps, distant voices, the clang of a closing door, then a slight pattering, which grew gradually more distinct, and seemed to keep pace with the beats of his pulse. Advancing footsteps!
"They have heard, and they have all gone; the man is coming back with some fine tale or another," he told himself, exasperatedly. As the door opened he turned with ready resentment, which gave place to a startled, uncomfortable sensation as in the ghastly man in deep black who entered he recognised Lord Vansittart.
"I am very sorry, my Lord, but I have a most painful duty to perform," he began, taking the warrant from his pocket. "I am compelled to arrest Lady Vansittart for the wilful murder of Victor Mercier on the --th of June last."
Lord Vansittart bowed, asked to see the warrant, and then slowly said, "If you will come this way, I will take you to her ladyship, who has a complete answer to the charge."
The detective bowed, passing his hand across his lips to assure himself that he was not smiling--he had no wish to wound the wretched husband of a miserable murderess--and followed the proprietor of the richly-furnished mansion across the hall, up the grand staircase, and along the corridor. Vansittart paused at a door, opened it, and entered.
The detective followed, half suspicious, half uneasy. The room was hung with white--everywhere were piles, masses of red flowers. On the white-hung bed lay more blood-red blossoms. Lord Vansittart went up to it with bowed head, and folding back the sheet that was scattered with the crimson blooms, showed a beautiful waxen face surrounded by close-woven gleaming hair: waxen hands folded meekly on the breast.
"Good God! Dead!" The detective recognized her--he had no doubt as to the fact--but he felt it with a shock.
"No," said Lord Vansittart, grimly, turning to him with a look which he afterwards confided to his wife was the worst experience of his hard-working and disillusionary existence. "Alive! Men may torture and kill our bodies, man, but who can kill the soul?"
THE END.
Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.
* * * * * * * *
Novels by Guy Boothby.
SPECIAL AND ORIGINAL DESIGNS.
Each volume attractively Illustrated by Stanley L. Wood and others.
Crown 8vo, Cloth Gilt. Trimmed Edges, 5s.
MY STRANGEST CASEFAREWELL, NIKOLA!SHEILAH McLEODMY INDIAN QUEENLONG LIVE THE KING!A SAILOR'S BRIDEA PRINCE OF SWINDLERSA MAKER OF NATIONSTHE RED RAT'S DAUGHTERLOVE MADE MANIFESTPHAROS, THE EGYPTIANACROSS THE WORLD FOR A WIFETHE LUST OF HATEBUSHIGRAMSTHE FASCINATION OF THE KINGDR. NIKOLATHE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVILA BID FOR FORTUNE; or, Dr. Nikola's VendettaIN STRANGE COMPANY: A Story of Chili and the Southern SeasTHE MARRIAGE OF ESTHER: A Torres Straits Sketch.
WORKS BY
E. Phillips Oppenheim.
The Illustrated London Newssays:--"Humdrum is the very last word you could apply to (a tale by) E. P. Oppenheim, which reminds you of one of those Chinese nests of boxes, one inside the other. You have plot within plot, wheel within wheel, mystery within mystery, till you are almost dizzy."
The British Weeklysays:--"Mr. Oppenheim has boundless imagination and distinct skill. He paints in broad, vivid colours; yet, audacious as he is, he never outsteps the possible. There is good thrilling mystery in his books, and not a few excellent characters."
THE GREAT AWAKENING.
Illustrated by F. H. TOWNSEND. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s.
THE SURVIVOR.
Illustrated by STANLEY L. WOOD. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s.
A MILLIONAIRE OF YESTERDAY.
Illustrated by STANLEY L. WOOD. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s.
THE MYSTERY OF MR. BERNARD BROWN.
Illustrated. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.
THE WORLD'S GREAT SNARE.
Illustrated by J. AMBROSE WALTON. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.
A DAUGHTER OF THE MARIONIS.
Illustrated by ADOLF THIEDE. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.
THE MAN AND HIS KINGDOM.
Illustrated by J. AMBROSE WALTON. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.
MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN.
Illustrated by J. AMBROSE WALTON. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.
AS A MAN LIVES.
Illustrated by STANLEY L. WOOD. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.
A MONK OF CRUTA.
Illustrated by WARNE BROWNE. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.
Novels by Joseph Hocking.
Crown 8vo, Cloth Gilt, 3/6 each. Each volume uniform.
GREATER LOVE. Illustrated by GORDON BROWNE.
LEST WE FORGET. Illustrated by J. BARNARD DAVIS.
THE PURPLE ROBE. Illustrated by J. BARNARD DAVIS.
THE SCARLET WOMAN. Illustrated by SYDNEY COWELL.
THE BIRTHRIGHT. Illustrated by HAROLD PIFFARD.
MISTRESS NANCY MOLESWORTH. Illustrated by F. H. TOWNSEND.
FIELDS OF FAIR RENOWN. With Frontispiece and Vignette by J. BARNARD DAVIS.
ALL MEN ARE LIARS. With Frontispiece and Vignette by GORDON BROWNE.
ISHMAEL PENGELLY: An Outcast. With Frontispiece and Vignette by W. S. STACEY.
THE STORY OF ANDREW FAIRFAX. With Frontispiece and Vignette by GEO. HUTCHINSON.
AND SHALL TRELAWNEY DIE? Illustrated by LANCELOT SPEED.
JABEZ EASTERBROOK. With Frontispiece and Vignette by STANLEY L. WOOD.
WEAPONS OF MYSTERY. With Frontispiece and Vignette.
Z1LLAH. With Frontispiece by POWELL CHASE.
THE MONK OF MAR-SABA. With Frontispiece and Vignette by W. S. STACEY.
Some Magazines are
MERELY MASCULINE....
Others are
FRIVOLOUSLY FEMININE.
... THE ...
WINDSOR
Stands alone asThe Illustrated Magazinefor Men and Women.
ITS STORIES--Serial and Short alike--are by the leading; Novelists of the day; Its Articles, ranging over every branch of our complex modern life, are by recognised Specialists; Its Illustrations represent the high-water mark of current Black-and-White Art.
These features combine to make The Windsor's contents, month by month, a popular theme for conversation in circles that are weary of the trivialities of the common-place periodicals.
In addition to its strong interest for MEN and WOMEN, the Windsor makes a feature of publishing the Best Studies of Child-Life that the modern cult of youth has yet produced in fictional literature.
The WINDSOR'S recent and present Contributors include:--
Rudyard KiplingMrs. P. A. SteelS. R. CrockettCutcliffe HyneMax PembertonHall CaineE. NesbitGuy BoothbyIan MaclarenFrankfort MooreAnthony HopeEthel TurnerRobert BarrBarry PainGilbert Parker
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED.
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKA WOMAN MARTYR***