Please come soon. Phœbe seems very ill.—P. C.
Please come soon. Phœbe seems very ill.—P. C.
He hailed a hansom and was off in a moment.
The child was asleep in her crib, and Mrs Cameron watched uneasily by her side. The flushed face, hurrying pulse, the dry skin, and spasmodic breathing showed signs of fever. There were cases of diphtheria about, and he looked grave. But he decided to cause no unnecessary anxiety, and promised to return later. Then there was no concealing it; great care, he said, must be exercised, as the child was young and not over-strong. He put his opinion in that form to avoid being an alarmist, though the symptoms of the disease were unfavourable, and he dreaded the worst. But his own hope was so great that it tempered his report with consolation, for he had not the heart to warn Phœbe's mother of his fears.
After hours of anxious watching he could not but own to himself that no progress wasmade, and that the crisis must be awaited with dread. Should he tell her? Dared he? In front of him lay the probably dying little creature that was first in her life—before himself, before anything. Should she perish, there would be no barrier in the world between them; Mrs Cameron would have no duty but to herself!
A warm flush underlay his features—not the flush of pride or of satisfaction; it was the dye of shame for thoughts which placed himself and his egoistic desires before the life of the innocent being whose fate seemed to lie in his hands. It lasted not a moment, for he rose and left the house with a face quite ashen grey, whence all the light and fire of youth had faded. He was not long absent, for he had secured a passing hansom and paid a doubled fare for doubled speed.
He found Mrs Cameron alone with the child, while the nurse, worn out and weary, dozed in an adjacent room. Little Phœbe, who, earlier in the day, had been restless to a frightful degree, flinging about her waxen, chubby arms distractedly in the effort to gain breath, now lay almost motionless. Hermother, little experienced in any phase of illness, imagined that some slight improvement had taken place, but Ralph Danby knew better. The dull bluish pallor of the hitherto rosy skin; the rapid pulsation and agonised breathing; the feeble, sad croak that could not develop force enough for a cry—all told him there was no time to be lost.
He hastily opened the case for which he had journeyed home, and produced a small silver tube.
Mrs Cameron watched his movements with anxiety.
"What are you going to do?"
She was standing near the crib, midway between it and a table whereon he had deposited the case. As her eyes met his she read, by an extraordinary intuition which comes to most of us when reason fails, that he purposed some extreme course of action.
"What are you going to do?" she reiterated, somewhat sharply.
"I must give our little patient relief—instant relief—by means of this," he answered, hastily. She seemed to be wasting time withquestions when every moment was precious. Still she stood motionless in front of him.
"How?" she persisted, in a voice so hollow that he could scarcely recognise it.
"I cannot explain now. You must trust me."
"How?" she cried, imperatively. "I will know." A light was dawning on her. She was recalling a case of which she had read in some old paper where the doctor lost his life to save the patient.
Danby frowned slightly, and his face looked worn and old. He was unaccustomed to be doubted or to have his authority questioned.
"If you will know, I shall insert this in the throat," he replied, deliberately advancing towards the cot, "and remove the mucus by suction."
"But you might catch the disease?"
"Possibly."
"You might—you might die?"
"Well?"
He was bending towards the child, and gently rubbing the tube with his handkerchief. With a sudden movement she flung herself between him and the crib, and placedher outstretched palms against his broad chest.
"You—shall—not!"
Her agonised touch, the expression of her wild, troubled eyes, made Dot's heart thump within him, but his face showed no sign.
With seeming severity he clasped her wrists and drew her to the adjoining dressing-room.
"It is a matter of life and death—your child's. I dared not tell you how serious—I hoped to save you alarm. Now there is no time to spare."
With that he returned to the room, closed the door, and locked it, leaving her in a passion of tears on the other side. Then he rang for the nurse, and proceeded.
Though at first his very soul seemed shaken with suppressed emotion, in a few seconds the sight of the infant's sufferings, its near approach to suffocation, overwhelmed all remembrance of his own personality, and restored the equilibrium. One thought of the woman, and his frame had throbbed and shivered like the forest trees in March; another, the greater, nobler thought of hisscience, his sacred mission at the hands of his Maker, and the trembling fingers grew steady.
With accuracy and judgment he inserted the shining channel into the windpipe of the sufferer; with patience and deliberation he held the end of the instrument in his mouth and sucked!
And all the while from the inner room came the sound of sobs—the passionate wail of the woman who had betrayed herself, who stood self-accused of neglecting her child. He heard the grievous sound as he strained the poisonous mucus from the tiny throat and breathed the death-laden air into his lungs. He knew that he swayed on the bridge between life and eternity; that possibly—nay, probably—he should never hear the sweet enchantment of her voice again; that if he should die it must be without so much as a pressure from her hand; and yet the great heart never wavered, but beat evenly like the pulse of some grand cathedral clock, which, spite of marriage chime or funeral knell, pursues its steadfast purpose for ever.
At last the work was over, and its reward,the free respiration of the little sufferer, was assured. Then a feeling of dizziness crept over his brain, and he hastened home, but not before summoning his partner to relieve him.
When Doctor Davis arrived, he learnt from the nurse and Mrs Cameron what had taken place. He was a practical, prosaic person, cumbered with a delicate wife and up-growing children, and censured Danby's conduct as foolhardy in the extreme.
"Is he bound to catch it?" asked Phœbe, with concern.
"Most certainly," replied the physician, scowling. He liked Ralph, and thought him much too sound a fellow to be lost through idiocy. "I believe there have been cases to the contrary—some solitary exceptions."
"But even then," pursued she, anxiously, "he need not die? He will recover?"
"Ten to one against it," said the doctor, bluntly, quite unconscious that the ghastly pallor of his questioner was due to more than weary watching by her child.
But Danby did recover. His magnificent constitution pulled him through in a manner little short of the miraculous. Perhaps hopehad some occult healing power unknown to those who watched and tended him.
At the end of six weeks the burly "Dot" was himself again, and once more made his way to the little house in Mervan Street in glad expectation. A terrible disappointment awaited him. Phœbe major was not at home! Phœbe minor, however, executed gleeful saltations in honour of his arrival.
"How is 'oo, Dot Dandy? Twite, twite well? Phœbe pray Dod every day make Dot well!"
The big man stooped and kissed the tiny prattler, and thus avoided the necessity for speech. His heart seemed to have risen in his throat, and made a huge lump there.
Hurriedly taking his departure, he determined to call another day, but though he went again and again, it was with no better luck. Then he understood that Mrs Cameron's repeated absences were not the result of accident, but of design. She had been kind in her daily inquiries after him, but now that he had recovered, she was decided they should not meet.
A few days later the child had a feverishcold, and to his chagrin he heard that Doctor Davis had been sent for. That made it quite evident he was not wanted. He made no effort to go, but smarted under the sense of injury. His better reason argued that as she had intentionally broken with him, she could not demand his attendance on the infant without risk of unavoidable meeting. But why had she so behaved? Had he not saved her child, the light of her life, the aim of her future? Had he not determined studiously to forget her accidental show of anxiety for him, prompted by ignorance of the child's immediate danger? Why had she asked after him daily? Why had little knots of flowers been left by bairn and nurse, and why, ah, why! had the wee lips uttered a prayer for him?
"Perhaps the child had acted of her own impulse," sighed his modesty.
"Perhaps she had been so taught," panted his hope.
At last he determined to end the estrangement or let friendship perish in the attempt. He wanted nothing but her forgiveness; that he felt he deserved.
He knew every afternoon at five the nursewas relieved by Mrs Cameron, who watched in the nursery while the babe slept. That hour, therefore, was chosen for his visit. He mounted the stairs two at a time and rapped at the familiar door. There was no answer. He turned the handle and entered.
Phœbe major sat at the open window idle. She was reading the picture promise of the clouds. Phœbe minor in a cot slept rosily in the far corner of the room.
"Good afternoon," he whispered softly, in order not to disturb the little slumberer.
Mrs Cameron extended a hand, but no smile greeted him. She scarcely turned from her study of the skies. Poor Danby's heart felt sore and heavy laden. He asked a few trivialities regarding the invalid's health, and each query received an appropriate reply—nothing more.
He had taken a seat facing hers by the window, but even then only a profile view of the face he loved was accorded him.
At length he could endure no longer.
"Mrs Cameron, I regret having come instead of Davis. He was engaged. I hadno idea I should be so unwelcome. Have I offended you irremediably?"
"No. Yes!" she corrected.
"How?"
He bent forward to induce her gaze to rest on him, but was foiled.
"If you will not tell me, how can I make amends? Was it because I locked you from your own room?"
"No."
He noticed the tight grasp of her soft fingers against the window-sill. She was not as callous as she wished to appear.
"Was it because I treated the child without your leave?"
"No."
Her frame shook slightly, and two crystal drops which she was too proud to wipe away stood in her eyes.
Very gently he covered her hand with his own great one; very softly he whispered in a voice he could scarcely steady:—
"Was it because I seemed ungrateful for the little love you offered me?"
The two tears rolled down her cheeks and dropped upon his wrist. With quiveringmouth she strove to frame what her face confessed would be a lie.
He no longer hesitated, but caught her to his breast and crushed the naughty falsehood with his lips.
How long the operation would have lasted it is impossible to guess, for two shining eyes set in slumber-flushed cheeks peered suddenly from the distant cot, and a prattling voice, unabashed and lusty, shouted:—
"Tiss me too—Dot Dandy!"
"Menez moi dit ma belleA la rive fideleOu l'on aime toujours."
"Menez moi dit ma belleA la rive fideleOu l'on aime toujours."
The difficulty of apprehending the female character is well-nigh insurmountable. Woman has been called chameleon, weathercock, enigma; but an enigma has a solution which may be reached by patience or accident, a weathercock will confess the bent of the wind for however short a space, and the colour of a chameleon can be periodically proved by its dietary. But woman—she is a reiterating question, an argument sans crux, a volume with uncut leaves dotted about through the most exciting chapters. Without the right clue you must dip and skip, now pricked, now irritated, till you approach a frenzy bordering on madness. For you like to know the sort of creature you are dealing with—a painter especially, since his fame hangs on his knowledge—hence these ruminations round Betty.
Betty? you say—do we not all know her? Does not her dimpled face peer out of the weekly papers, and do not their columns expose and magnify every little detail of her life—her fads, her fancies, and her follies? Cannot we see her night after night whisking her mazy skirts in the limelight, and opening the carnation folds of her lips to patter enchanting nonsense and pout promises brittle as pie crust? Dear little Betty! How her twinkling feet make merry, light as sea-foam frothing on shells; how our pulses throb and dance in pace with hers; how our ears dote on the fragile, cooing tones of her dainty voice as it coquettes with banalities, flirts with the very bars of melody that silly men have tried to make witty and pretty. But the prettiness and wittiness are Betty's; do we not all know that? Do we not know that the shiver of the violins is only quaint when Betty shudders at the whisper of a kiss, that the cyclone of strings and wind fades exquisitely, "like a rose in aromatic pain," simply because Betty, our whimsical dear, chooses to sigh for having shuddered?And when at last she cries, to think she sighs for that at which she shuddered, we all clap our hands to splitting—not, oh, not at the music, but in wild collective rapture over the vagaries of our Betty!
In this way I thought I knew her every trick and wile and whim, till I came to paint her picture, till one after another my charcoal lines were flicked from the canvas, and I succumbed to that paralysing sense of total defeat which is almost always the punishment of swollen ambition. What was wrong? I asked myself. What had I missed? The pose, the expression, the throb of motion? Weeks passed—then I worked again, made a new study, and consulted my cousin Laura. She knew something of dancing, and was at that time practising ballet steps, a necessary accompaniment—so she had been told—to her debût in comic opera.
"The face is perfection," she said. "The little droop in the left eye—she must have been born winking—and the upward curve at the corner of the lip, they couldn't be improved."
I shook my head. Laura's verdict wasunsatisfactory. The human mind so often demands an opinion when it really wants a looking-glass.
"Perhaps if I could get more action—more of the warmth which goes with action——?"
"It would affect the flesh tint, certainly. You should see me pirouetting at Dupres'—a peony isn't in it."
"I should like to see you," I said, jumping at a probable solution of my difficulties, "particularly in daylight. One gets better to the core of——"
"With women," Laura interrupted, "it's safest to reject the core."
"Cynic. You admit the downiest have the hardest hearts—like peaches, eh?"
"I didn't mean to be cynical. You can avoid the hard part. It is better than choosing the human plantains that have none: smooth, soapy, insipid things, they clog in no time."
"But pears eat straight through—sweet to the pip," I said, gazing quizzically at my latest sketch. "Betty is a pear."
Laura laughed generously.
"Foolish boy, keep your illusions. You can clean your brushes in them. Degas saw wonderful things in his models—things hidden from the vulgar eye."
"I am glad you mentioned Degas. I mean to see more than this Betty of the Ballet. Take me to your class."
"Oh, I don't dance in the class. I have a private lesson when the girls are gone. You can come this afternoon at four."
We made a long journey on the top of an omnibus to a hole somewhere in Lambeth. Squalor appeared to grope under railway arches, and penury to moan through flapping fragments of clothing that swung at intervals along the narrow paths, behind rows of second-hand furniture and groups of dishevelled infants.
"A choice locality," I growled.
"Cheap," exclaimed Laura. "When you put your shoulder to the wheel you mustn't mind greasing your jacket."
She was a plucky girl—glad, like many others, to grasp the only opportunity of self-support. My uncle, a Cheshire parson, had died peacefully, leaving four girls andsix boys with bucolic appetites to the charge of Providence.
"Here we are at last," my cousin said, leaping down with agility, and hardly stopping the omnibus for her exit.
We alighted almost in front of a quaint building which looked like an excrescence—a wart—on the visage of a dilapidated chapel. Laura led the way up a garden in size somewhat larger than a postage-stamp, where two heartseases, sole invaders of the desolate gravel, tried to blink golden eyes through a canopy of dust. The door was opened by a youth who mingled an air of proprietorship with the aspect of a waiter at a third-rate café. He waved a hand to rooms, or rather cabins, on the right, through which Laura led me. Cabin the first contained a dining table and a fossil piano utilised as shelf for sundries and sideboard; cabin the second, apparently a sleeping chamber, held a bed, dressing table, and a diminutive bracket on which might have stood a hand basin; while cabin the third—little more than a wooden box papered with promiscuous remnants of a decorator's stock—stored a plank upraised by volunteer legsenlisted from haphazard sources, a basin, a bottle of cloudy water, and a cracked wall mirror.
There Laura slipped off her walking shoes, and announced her intention to make a change of toilette.
I forthwith escaped through the further door, and found myself in a large, bare room, facing a middle-aged man, who was evidently the dancing master, M. Dupres.
I explained my presence and my interest in the ballet.
"I am accompanying my cousin, Miss Lorimer"—this was the stage name by which she was known—"in order to paint the pose of one of my sitters. I want more vibrating actuality, and hope to sketch it here."
"Mais certainement—of course. Ze beauty of ze human form is never so fine as when it moves to my vish. You vill see."
Laura entered in a short, fan-pleated frock with black silk knickerbockers, and lacy frills shrouding the knees. Her silken hose and shiny pumps make her already graceful as she chasséd by way of experiment across the bare boards from the orange-toothed piano at one end to the camp chairs at the other.The ballet-master made his way to a small conservatory—a hospital for effete bulbs and straggling, deformed geraniums—and snatching up a watering-can laid the dust which already began to thicken the air.
Then operations began. To me they were deeply interesting, because Betty's face and form were continually before my eyes, and the one thing wanting to make my work a chef-d'œuvre was, I hoped, on the verge of discovery. Laura placed herself in an attitude, glanced at her instructor, who had armed himself with a fiddle, and with its first tones commenced a series of evolutions. Sketch-book in hand, I followed her movements, now noting a six-step shuffle straight a-down the length of the boards; now sketching the action of her arms, which, balancing that of the feet, swayed inversely with every bend of the knees. Then came an etherealised milkmaid step that might have been termed an arm akimbo gallop had not the two wrists been pressed abnormally forward against the waist, with their pink palms glowing outwards. In this pose poor Laura's limbs looked obdurate as sawdust, whileBetty's had bent like wax to the will of the modeller. Meanwhile, the fiddle fluttered, and the master now and then exemplified the grace of any particular attitude he desired. You could observe his beautiful build, the symmetry of every movement, despite the impediment of two gouty-looking feet encased in cloth-covered boots of original design. His features were certainly distinguished, and the trimness of his prematurely blanched hair made a curious contrast to the general dilapidation of the surroundings. His poses, one quickly following the other, were all picturesque. With every turn of the head, or bend of a knee, or stretch of an arm, some fresh revelation of physical equipoise delighted the eye.
Laura went through various new movements of a Spanish Carmen-like fandango with head uplifted and a bravura pout of the chin, after which we preceded her through the dressing-room, where she was left to readjust her walking dress. A sense of disappointment weighed on me. All these attitudes, all these evolutions I had seen in their perfection through the medium of Betty. No grace ofmotion could equal hers, no actuality portrayed by another could be half as exquisite as even the baldest reminiscence of her.
On the wall of the little bed-chamber where M. Dupres courteously accompanied me were many photographs, faded but still recognisable, of himself dressed in tights or other theatrical frippery. He took evident pleasure in watching my appreciation of the curious attitudes in which—to show off in their fullest perfection the lithe muscles and magnificent symmetry of his agile frame—he had been portrayed.
"You must have danced a great deal?" I questioned, seeing that some remark was required of me.
"Danced!" he said, lifting his eyes to the smudgy ceiling. "Yes, it is feefteen year ago, but I remember it like jesterday. All overe in vone moment; a coup de fouet ve call it."
I begged for an explanation.
"I vas ze first—ze very first. One leap into ze air I could do—so high," he said, lifting his hand descriptively; "a leap zat no vone vould dare—my fortune vas made. Pupils came from all ze countries to learnfrom me some leetle 'pas,' but zere vas no time. Zen, vone night zere came a king to see me—me, ze king of ze dance—ah! I may say zat now it is all gone! I danced; ze air vas no lighter zan I ... ze people shouted, zey called, zey encored. Again I danced, high, high, higher, and zen—crack!"
He brought his two hands together with a sharp click. His face was convulsed with emotion, and presently he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the damp from his brow.
"Yes," he continued, "it is feefteen year—but to me it is to-day. Zere—in my leg was a break"—he pointed to the place a little above his ankle and below the calf. "You could put a fingere into it—that vone muscle vas my fortune—it vas gone—split in vone moment."
His sad eyes stared blankly out from the cracked unclean window as though reviewing a vast panorama of his early years.
"How sad; terrible! Is this a common accident?" I inquired of him.
"Common? Yes, ze coup de fouet; butzis vas vorse. For long I lay in bed, my brain made mad to know zat all vas overe, zat all vas lost. Zey offered me half vage to teach, but no—not vere I had been ze first—ze very first. I left England and my friends, I hoped for evere."
"Was that not foolish?" I asked, viewing the greasy curtains and other surrounding evidences of poverty.
"Voolish? Ah, ve are all vools vhen ve love. I had loved: she vas almost mine, but she vas too young, a child dancer of feefteen summers. So sveet, so beautiful. She learnt from me my art, every jeste, every perfection. She vould have been my vife, my queen—but after zis, I ran. Vhen my senses came I knew that I could be no more rich—only a poor dead dog in her vay. For zis I fled ze country. I came back after feefteen year, no longer ze great Salvador, but plain M. Dupres—back to hear of Betty——"
"Betty!" I echoed.
"Yes, the first dancer in London—my leetle Betty—you have zeen her?" And he lifted a hand to a portrait over his pillow.
I recognised with dismay the child face—the merry smile at the corner of the lip.
"This is the very woman I am trying to paint."
"Sapristi!" he exclaimed, and again wiped his brow. "You vill keep my zecret? Ze years of zacrifice, let them not be known to her." His face was wrinkled and livid with anxiety.
"Your confidence is sacred; I am honoured by it," I said, extending a hand, for Laura just then opened the door upon us.
She laughed whimsically at my almost emotional leave-taking of a total stranger, and chaffed me about it when we got outside.
"I have much to be grateful for to him—to you," I said. "My picture is almost achieved. I may be worthy to follow at the heels of Degas yet."
When Betty next came to the studio she thought my painting was completed, and skipped about in front of the canvas with the genuine joy of gratified vanity.
"Why didn't you tell me it was done, and I needn't have got into these," she said, lifting the hem of her gauze skirt to her lips—afascinating trick which, to use her own expression, invariably "brought down the house."
I looked at the laughing row of white teeth and thought of Dupres.
"You still want a touch or two. Just get into position for one moment."
"You'll spoil me," she warned, jumping to her place on the "throne," and shooting out an ankle that would have unhinged Diogenes.
"Nothing could spoil you," I said gallantly, and a paint tube levelled in the direction of my head was the reward of my politeness.
"You don't aim as well as you dance. How did you learn—at a training school, or where?"
"To dance? Bah! training schools can't teach the fine poetry of movement. They knock the prose into you, but—but the poetry I learnt from—O—a man who was great in his day."
"Salvador?" I ventured.
She blushed faintly.
"How did you know?"
"You gave the cue. Salvador was the greatest name I could think of——"
"You know something of dancing, then?"
"Very little. I have heard he had an accident or something that affected his career."
"Yes; it turned his head. He was to have married me, but, like all men, he was ungrateful. He changed—changed quite suddenly."
"How so?"
"I nursed him night and day. He had no mother, no sister, and I thought I could be all the world to him. Little girls are romantic, and he was too ill to know. Before he recovered consciousness I sent an old woman to attend him; but one fine day, when well enough, he bolted."
"Where?"
"Lord knows!" (Betty's language was not Johnsonian.) "Do you think I was going to crawl after him and grovel——?"
"There is no grovelling where love levels."
"But it didn't level," she said, angrily, as though the reproach stung—"it didn't level. I would have chucked my whole future for him: I would now, while he.... O, don't talk of it," she exclaimed huskily, whiskingthe back of her hand across her eyes: "I tell myself it was all for the best."
The tone implied a query, but I made no answer. There were heart thrills in the air, and my brush, pregnant with their subtle rhythm, was travailling fast.
"Why don't you say it was?" she persisted. "You know that love—real love—is worse than handcuffs."
"'A cloying treacle to the wings of independence'—eh? Keats would have been glad of the treacle nevertheless."
"Perhaps. Wouldn't we just drown in it if we could?... But, after all, I should have been a fat lump of domesticity by now," she laughed, straightening her lithe limbs and resuming her conventional smile.
In a moment she had become the world's Betty again—bewitching, coy, insouciante Betty.
But a tear-drop still clung to her eyelashes.
DEARER THAN ALL:A TALE OF LOVE AND WAR.ByROBERT OVERTON,Author of "The King's Pardon," "Queer Fish," "A Round Dozen," "Next of Kin," "The Mills of God," etc. etc.AND OTHER STORIES.[In the Press.A TARNISHED NAME:THE STORY OF THE GENEVIEVE SISTERHOOD.ByRICHARD RUSSELL,Author of "Men Were Deceivers Ever," etc. etc.AND OTHER STORIES.[In the Press.THE FULFILMENT OF THE PROPHECY.ByNEAL FYNE,Author of "The Coffin Shop," "Land of the Living Dead," etc. etc.AND OTHER STORIES.[In the Press.BLUE EYES AND GOLDEN HAIR.ByANNIE THOMAS (MrsPender Cudlip),Author of "'He Cometh Not,' She Said," "Passion in Tatters," "Stray Sheep," "Two Widows," "Blotted Out," "Friends and Lovers," "Allerton Towers," "Dennis Donne," etc. etc.AND OTHER STORIES.[In the Press.
DEARER THAN ALL:A TALE OF LOVE AND WAR.
ByROBERT OVERTON,Author of "The King's Pardon," "Queer Fish," "A Round Dozen," "Next of Kin," "The Mills of God," etc. etc.
AND OTHER STORIES.
[In the Press.
A TARNISHED NAME:THE STORY OF THE GENEVIEVE SISTERHOOD.
ByRICHARD RUSSELL,Author of "Men Were Deceivers Ever," etc. etc.
AND OTHER STORIES.
[In the Press.
THE FULFILMENT OF THE PROPHECY.
ByNEAL FYNE,Author of "The Coffin Shop," "Land of the Living Dead," etc. etc.
AND OTHER STORIES.
[In the Press.
BLUE EYES AND GOLDEN HAIR.
ByANNIE THOMAS (MrsPender Cudlip),Author of "'He Cometh Not,' She Said," "Passion in Tatters," "Stray Sheep," "Two Widows," "Blotted Out," "Friends and Lovers," "Allerton Towers," "Dennis Donne," etc. etc.
AND OTHER STORIES.
[In the Press.
Poems of Passion.ByELLA WHEELER WILCOX.50th Thousand."A shillingsworth to buy and keep."—Piccadilly."Mrs Wilcox's poems are all rich in ideas. She often condenses a whole page in a stanza and leaves the great truth sparkling, and clearer than the orator would make it in a laboured argument.""May be read with distinct pleasure."—Manchester Guardian.The Love Letters of a Vagabond.ByE. HERON-ALLEN.A Small Volume of Spirited Poems."A very good example of the verse that celebrates the fashionable emotions of the period."—Court Circular.A Presentation Edition may be had, tastefully printed in antique style, bound in blue cloth and white vellum, gilt top, price 5s.Poems of Pleasure.ByELLA WHEELER WILCOX."Mrs Wilcox in this collection runs the whole gamut of the emotions. She is decidedly the most successful of the poetesses of the present day."
Poems of Passion.
ByELLA WHEELER WILCOX.50th Thousand.
"A shillingsworth to buy and keep."—Piccadilly.
"Mrs Wilcox's poems are all rich in ideas. She often condenses a whole page in a stanza and leaves the great truth sparkling, and clearer than the orator would make it in a laboured argument."
"May be read with distinct pleasure."—Manchester Guardian.
The Love Letters of a Vagabond.
ByE. HERON-ALLEN.A Small Volume of Spirited Poems.
"A very good example of the verse that celebrates the fashionable emotions of the period."—Court Circular.
A Presentation Edition may be had, tastefully printed in antique style, bound in blue cloth and white vellum, gilt top, price 5s.
Poems of Pleasure.
ByELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
"Mrs Wilcox in this collection runs the whole gamut of the emotions. She is decidedly the most successful of the poetesses of the present day."
NOW READY.The Land of the Living Dead:A MOST REMARKABLE STORY.By NEAL FYNE.ILLUSTRATED BY E. A. HOLLOWAY.256 pp. Crown 8vo. Price 3s 6d.A Blind Man's Love.By LAURENCE JOHN.Crown 8vo. 234 Pages. Price 3s 6d."There is running through it a sound moral and much good religious teaching."—Christian Globe."In these days of forcing-house fiction it is refreshing to fall back on a simple, well-told story such as this."—The Independent and Non-conformist.Comrades:A Novel.By ANNABEL GRAY,Author of "A Spanish Singer," etc. etc.Demy 8vo. 392 Pages. Price 6s."The book begins at high pressure and keeps the pressure at its utmost through much more than the ordinary length of a novel."'Twixt the Lights;Or, ODD NOTES FROM ODD TIMES.With other Sketches and Drawings in Black and White.By W. W. FENN,Author of "Half-Hours of a Blind Man's Holiday," "After Sundown," "Woven in Darkness," etc. etc.In Two Vols. Price 24s.WITH FRONTISPIECE BY LOUISE JOPLING.NOW READY.AT ALL LIBRARIES AND BOOKSELLERS.Random Recollections.By ROBERT GANTHONY.Crown 8vo, cloth. Price 6s. Illustrated with Portraits of the Author, etc. etc.JUST OUT. PRICE TWO SHILLINGS.TASTEFULLY BOUND IN ART VELLUM.Dancing a Pleasure.By EDWARD SCOTT,Author of "Dancing" in The All England Series.A Book of Useful Information and Genuine Hints for Dancers and Learners.NOW READY.The Devil's Shilling.Being the Simple Narrative of the Extraordinary Career of a Certain Coin of the Realm.By CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN,Author of "Kissing Cup's Race," etc. etc.256 pp. Illustrated, cloth extra. Price 3s 6d.POULTRY.A Practical Guide to the Choice, Breeding, Rearing, and Management of all descriptions of Fowls, Turkeys, Guinea Fowls, Ducks, and Geese, for Profit and Exhibition, with accurate and beautifully coloured plates, illustrating all the different varieties. ByHugh Pipes, author of "Pigeons: their Varieties, Management, Breeding, and Diseases." Crown 8vo, cloth elegant. Price 2s 6d.NATURAL HISTORY OF CAGE BIRDS.Their Management, Habits, Food, Diseases, Treatment, Breeding, and the Methods of Catching them. ByJ. M. Bechstein, M.D., illustrated with 70 engravings. Elegantly bound in cloth. Price 2s 6d.This beautifully illustrated edition of Dr Bechstein's well-known work will be welcomed by every lover of natural history, and is remarkable for the fidelity and beauty of the engravings no less than for its general elegant appearance. A copious alphabetical index is appended to the volume, which will enable the reader instantly to find the birds whose history and management are required.THE BEE-KEEPER'S MANUAL; OR, THE HONEY BEE.Its Management and Preservation, with a description of the best approved Hives, and other appliances of the apiary. ByHenry Taylor. Revised and greatly enlarged to the present time byAlfred Watts. Illustrated with more than 150 wood engravings. Crown 8vo, cloth. Price 2s 6d."We consider this edition of Taylor, under the editorship of Mr Watts, as good a manual for the bee-keeper as is to be found in the language."—Journal of Horticulture."A classic work among apiarian literature. A thoroughly trustworthy guide."—Land and Water."20."ByROBERT OVERTON.A Volume of Story and Song. Crown 8vo, 124 pp., limp cloth.PRICE ONE SHILLING."The sketches are light but always spirited, and the verse is pleasant to read."—Scotsman.Souvenir of Sir Henry Irving.ByWALTER CALVERT.Illustrated with 46 Half-tone and other Engravings. In cardboard cover.PRICE ONE SHILLING."Admirably executed."—Liverpool Daily Post."It is excellently well written and got up."—Pelican.Now Ready.A COMPANION VOLUME TO THE ABOVE, BY THE SAME AUTHOR.Souvenir of Miss Ellen Terry.PRICE ONE SHILLING.
NOW READY.
The Land of the Living Dead:A MOST REMARKABLE STORY.
By NEAL FYNE.ILLUSTRATED BY E. A. HOLLOWAY.
256 pp. Crown 8vo. Price 3s 6d.
A Blind Man's Love.
By LAURENCE JOHN.
Crown 8vo. 234 Pages. Price 3s 6d.
"There is running through it a sound moral and much good religious teaching."—Christian Globe.
"In these days of forcing-house fiction it is refreshing to fall back on a simple, well-told story such as this."—The Independent and Non-conformist.
Comrades:A Novel.
By ANNABEL GRAY,Author of "A Spanish Singer," etc. etc.
Demy 8vo. 392 Pages. Price 6s.
"The book begins at high pressure and keeps the pressure at its utmost through much more than the ordinary length of a novel."
'Twixt the Lights;Or, ODD NOTES FROM ODD TIMES.
With other Sketches and Drawings in Black and White.
By W. W. FENN,Author of "Half-Hours of a Blind Man's Holiday," "After Sundown," "Woven in Darkness," etc. etc.
In Two Vols. Price 24s.
WITH FRONTISPIECE BY LOUISE JOPLING.
NOW READY.AT ALL LIBRARIES AND BOOKSELLERS.
Random Recollections.By ROBERT GANTHONY.
Crown 8vo, cloth. Price 6s. Illustrated with Portraits of the Author, etc. etc.
JUST OUT. PRICE TWO SHILLINGS.TASTEFULLY BOUND IN ART VELLUM.
Dancing a Pleasure.By EDWARD SCOTT,Author of "Dancing" in The All England Series.
A Book of Useful Information and Genuine Hints for Dancers and Learners.
NOW READY.
The Devil's Shilling.Being the Simple Narrative of the Extraordinary Career of a Certain Coin of the Realm.
By CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN,Author of "Kissing Cup's Race," etc. etc.
256 pp. Illustrated, cloth extra. Price 3s 6d.
POULTRY.
A Practical Guide to the Choice, Breeding, Rearing, and Management of all descriptions of Fowls, Turkeys, Guinea Fowls, Ducks, and Geese, for Profit and Exhibition, with accurate and beautifully coloured plates, illustrating all the different varieties. ByHugh Pipes, author of "Pigeons: their Varieties, Management, Breeding, and Diseases." Crown 8vo, cloth elegant. Price 2s 6d.
NATURAL HISTORY OF CAGE BIRDS.
Their Management, Habits, Food, Diseases, Treatment, Breeding, and the Methods of Catching them. ByJ. M. Bechstein, M.D., illustrated with 70 engravings. Elegantly bound in cloth. Price 2s 6d.
This beautifully illustrated edition of Dr Bechstein's well-known work will be welcomed by every lover of natural history, and is remarkable for the fidelity and beauty of the engravings no less than for its general elegant appearance. A copious alphabetical index is appended to the volume, which will enable the reader instantly to find the birds whose history and management are required.
THE BEE-KEEPER'S MANUAL; OR, THE HONEY BEE.
Its Management and Preservation, with a description of the best approved Hives, and other appliances of the apiary. ByHenry Taylor. Revised and greatly enlarged to the present time byAlfred Watts. Illustrated with more than 150 wood engravings. Crown 8vo, cloth. Price 2s 6d.
"We consider this edition of Taylor, under the editorship of Mr Watts, as good a manual for the bee-keeper as is to be found in the language."—Journal of Horticulture.
"A classic work among apiarian literature. A thoroughly trustworthy guide."—Land and Water.
"20."ByROBERT OVERTON.
A Volume of Story and Song. Crown 8vo, 124 pp., limp cloth.
PRICE ONE SHILLING.
"The sketches are light but always spirited, and the verse is pleasant to read."—Scotsman.
Souvenir of Sir Henry Irving.ByWALTER CALVERT.
Illustrated with 46 Half-tone and other Engravings. In cardboard cover.
PRICE ONE SHILLING.
"Admirably executed."—Liverpool Daily Post.
"It is excellently well written and got up."—Pelican.
Now Ready.
A COMPANION VOLUME TO THE ABOVE, BY THE SAME AUTHOR.Souvenir of Miss Ellen Terry.
PRICE ONE SHILLING.
The Gardener's Receipt Book, containing Methods for Destroying all kinds of Vermin and Insects injurious to the Garden, with Preventives and Cures for the different Diseases of Plants, and Directions for the Preservation of Trees, Fruit, Flowers, etc. etc. ByWilliam Jones. Fourth edition, fcap. 8vo, cloth.
Cuthill (James)—The Gardener's Manualof the Cultivation of Mushrooms, Cucumbers, Melons, Strawberries, and the Vine. Fcap. 8vo, cloth.
Market Gardening: Giving in detail the various Methods adopted by Gardeners in Growing the Strawberry, Rhubarb, Filberts, Early Potatoes, Asparagus, Sea Kale, Cabbages, Cauliflowers, Celery, Beans, Peas, Brussels Sprouts, Spinach, Radishes, Lettuce, Onions, Carrots, Turnips, Water Cress, etc. ByJames Cuthill, F.R.H.S. Fcap. 8vo, cloth.
The Cat: Its History and Diseases, with Method of Administering Medicine.By the Honourable LadyCust. Fcap. 8vo, cloth.
French Made Easy for Self-Learners.ByC. E. Hartley. Comprising the most Essential Parts of the Grammar, a Full Explanation of the Correct Pronunciation, Lessons in Conversation, and a List of over 5000 French Words and Phrases in Common Use. Fcap. 8vo, cloth.
Home-Made Wines: How to Make and Keep Them, with Remarks on Preparing the Fruit, Fining, Bottling, and Storing. ByG. Vine. Contains—Apple, Apricot, Beer, Bilberry, Blackberry, Cherry, Clary, Cowslip, Currant, Damson, Elderberry, Gooseberry, Ginger, Grape, Greengage, Lemon, Malt, Mixed Fruit, Mulberry, Orange, Parsnip, Raspberry, Rhubarb, Raisin, Sloe, Strawberry, Turnip, Vine Leaf and Mead. Fcap. 8vo, cloth.
Cottage and Dairy Farming; or, How to Cultivate from Two to Twenty Acres, including the Management of Cows, Pigs, and Poultry, and the Making of Butter and Cheese. ByMartin DoyleandJ. Darton. Fcap. 8vo, cloth.
The Newspaper Dictionary: Classical and Foreign Quotations, Proverbs, Words, Expressions and Phrases of frequent occurrence. Translated and Explained byCharles Hartley. Fcap. 8vo, cloth.
Carving Made Easy; or, Practical Instructions whereby a Complete and Skilful Knowledge of the Useful Art of Carving may be attained. Illustrated with Engravings of Fish, Flesh, and Fowl, together with Suggestions for the Decoration of the Dinner Table. ByA. Merrythought. Fcap. 8vo, limp cloth.