“Preserve us!” says Merciful Wiggleskirk. “’Tis Tobias Tomkins of our troop—he is no more a parson than I am, and not half so much so.”
“I had meant to ask Master Drumbleforth if he recognised him for a clergyman of the rural deanery,” says Alison. “But there’s no need. I have no more to say. And yet——” she paused and looked at Anthony once again. “I have played with fairer weapons than yours,” she says.
And now there was naught left but for Alison and myself to make good our escape. We had been favoured in the most marvellous fashion up to that time, but we were not yet out of danger, and it was necessary that we should lose no time in removing ourselves from a neighbourhood wherein there was so much to imperil us. So I desired Alison, Master Drumbleforth, and MercifulWiggleskirk to accompany me to another apartment where we might discuss matters in privacy. Anthony Dacre and Tobias Tomkins I left in charge of John and Humphrey Stirk, bidding the latter have no mercy on them if they made any attempt to escape.
“And now,” says I, when the four of us were safely bestowed in another room, “what’s to be done next? ’Tis clear that we must quit this presently and put as many miles as possible between us and our enemies ere daybreak. The question,” I says, looking from one to the other, “is——where shall we go?”
“If I may speak,” says Merciful Wiggleskirk, “I say let us go to the Low Countries. I say us because I am going with you, master and mistress. Don’t say me nay—faith, you’ll find me useful enough ere we’ve come through our troubles,” he says.
“’Tis a long journey,” says I, doubtfully, looking at Alison.
“Long or short, ’tis a safe place that we shall find at the end on’t,” says Merciful. “And ’tis not so long either if we can but light on a ship at Hull.”
“I am of Master Wiggleskirk’s opinion,” says Master Drumbleforth.
“What say you, Alison?” says I.
But for answer she put her hand in mine. “Anywhere with you, Dick,” says she.
“The Low Countries be it, then,” says I. I looked round me. “Shall we ever see the old house again?” I thought to myself, cursing the fate that drove me and my bride out of its shelter like beggars. But that was no time for such thoughts. “Come,” I says. “Let’s be stirring—what is that you propose, Merciful Wiggleskirk?”
“Why,” says he, “what I propose, master, is simple enough—that we presently mount our horses and set out for Hull, there to find a ship. And since we have a fifty mile ride before us,” he says——
“Let’s waste no time in starting,” says I. “Come, see to the horses while I arrange for the safe custody of our prisoners.”
“Pity that we cannot knock them on the head for vermin,” says Merciful, and bustled out of the room on my errand. Master Drumbleforth followed him to find his own beast. I turned and took Alison into my arms.
“Sweetheart,” says I,“this is but a poor wedding-night for you. I fear we have many troubles and difficulties ahead out of which I would fain keep you.”
“Nay,” says she, laying her hand on my mouth, “no talk of that sort, Dick. We have faced more than one trouble together—I’ve no fear of aught that may come,” says she, smiling at me. “Oh, my dear, I love you so that troubles seem naught when I share them with you.”
“Why, then,” says I, leading her towards the door, “all’s well indeed.” I paused and held her at arm’s length, looking long and steadily into her eyes. “My wife!” I says, and caught her to my heart, only to release her again and look at her smiling face in sheer wonder. For to tell truth, my head was half turned with the strange doings of that day, and I could scarce comprehend that Alison was really and truly my own.
I think we might easily have forgotten our predicament, so wrapped up in each other were we, had not Merciful Wiggleskirk come bustling back again with news that the horses were in readiness. I sent Alison to her chamber for such baggage as it was necessary she should carry with her, and while she was thus employed, I went back to the room where John and Humphrey mounted guard over our prisoners. I bade them follow me without, and locked the door with my own hands.
“Now,” says I, handing the key to John Stirk,“you will keep these fellows in safe custody for three hours, lads, at the end of which time you may release them to go their ways as the devil, their master, prompts.” “By that time,” I says, “I trust we shall be beyond their reach. And so farewell, honest lads both, and pray God we meet again under this roof ere long with happier surroundings.” And I shook their hands, and went out to join Alison, who was busied in saying farewell to Barbara.
There was a faint moonlight as the four of us rode away across the moor towards Darrington. It was then one o’clock in the morning, and the air was of a biting keenness that seemed to penetrate to the very bones. Master Drumbleforth, muffled to his eyes, stooped over his horse’s neck and said naught; Merciful Wiggleskirk rode in front, humming a psalm tune to keep his jaws from chattering; Alison and I rode side by side in the rear, both occupied, I think, with our own thoughts, which were—if I may judge by my own—of that diverse complexion which is made up of sweet and bitter. For first I cursed the fate that drove me and my bride from the house where we should have settled down in peace and comfort, and then I blessed the day that had given me to wife the woman whom I loved witha deep and abiding passion. And somehow the happiness of the last thought drove out the bitterness of the first, and as we swept past the hedgerows and trees in the faint moonlight, I began to feel a sense of elation that made me bold and resolute to encounter whatever further peril lay before us.
At his parsonage house in Darrington village, Master Drumbleforth drew rein and took leave of us, bidding us God-speed, and wishing us a safe deliverance from all our dangers. We called back our thanks to him, and rode swiftly forward through the sleeping village until we came to the Great North Road. At the corner of the inn stables, Merciful drew rein.
“I am half undecided,” says he, “whether to go forward through Womersley and Snaith or to turn along the north road, and cross the river at Ferrybridge. What say you, master?”
“’Tis more likely to be safe by Snaith than by Ferrybridge,” says I. “Fairfax’s troopers are in force along the river-side at Ferrybridge.”
A window in the inn was thrown open above us, and a man looked out as if to enquire our business. Merciful turned his horse. “Do as I do,” says he, in a whisper. “By Ferrybridge, then,” he says in a loud voice, and rode awayup the hill. Alison and I followed. We were half a mile outside the village before Merciful spoke again.
“We are not for Ferrybridge after all,” says he. “I liked not the throwing up of that window, for the man who put his head out is in a position to say which way we have gone. Therefore, I came along the north road. We will now turn down this by-lane, and rejoin the Womersley road at Stapleton. Do you see my meaning, master?”
“Clearly,” says I. “Though I don’t see who can follow us.”
“Best give no chance,” he says. “We can’t be too careful. I shall breathe more freely when we’re across the Aire, and in a fair way for Hull.”
We now doubled back upon our old track, and presently came into the Womersley road, about a mile from Darrington village. For half-an-hour we rode through the woods of Stapleton, which overshadowed the road on either side, and shut out what moonlight there was. Then came the long, winding street of Womersley, and the clatter of our horses’ feet against the cottage walls, and then we were into a thickly wooded country again, relieved here and there by wildpatches of marsh and moor. In a shifty light (for the moon that night was of an uncertain behaviour) we raced across Balne Common. It was near three o’clock when we drew near to Snaith, and pulled up our horses under the shelter of a wayside coppice to consider our further plans.
“Shall we cross the river at Snaith,” says Merciful, “or shall we go on by the south bank to the ferry over the Ouse at Hooke? There is something to be said for both roads.”
“I know naught of either,” says I, “and must therefore leave the matter to your own decision, lad. I incline to the straightest road, so long as it is fairly clear of interruption.”
“I think we’ll make for Hooke,” says he, after he had meditated awhile. “From Howden to Hull there is a good turnpike road, and we shall make better progress. God send we find no interruption at the ferry!”
So we rode forward again, through Cowick and Rawcliffe, leaving Snaith on the left, and made good progress until we came to Airmyn at four o’clock in the morning. But there, just as I was beginning to feel sure of our deliverance, we received a sudden check that took all the conceitout of me, and left me a prey to more doubts and fears than I had any fancy for.
Airmyn was all alive. There were lights in every house, and as we came along the street we heard sounds of shouting and singing as though the place were filled with roysterers rather than with peaceable villagers. Coming to the open space before the inn we found a crowd of men and horses, and made out from a little distance that the former were Royalist troopers. With a common consent we drew rein, and looked at one another by such light as the candles and lanthorns in the cottage windows afforded us.
“What say you, Merciful?” says I. “Shall we venture through this mob, or is there some by-way that we can try?”
“There is no by-way,” says he, shaking his head. “And they see us by this time, and would think it suspicious did we turn back. Best go forward as if we were travellers in haste to continue our journey. Remember,” he saying, bending over to me, “that you are a country gentleman, travelling with your lady and servant to Hull, and that we are all staunch Royalists.”
“Can we play the parts?” says I.
“I can play a good many parts to save my neck,” says he. “Come, we are observed, master—let’s move forward.”
So we shook our reins and went on. There was a round score of troopers grouped about their horses before the inn, with here and there a stable lad running about, flaring torch in hand, the streaming light from which gave a grotesque appearance to the men and animals. I leaned over and laid hold of Alison’s bridle, and so we approached the crowd, none of whom seemed disposed to make way for us.
“By your leave, gentlemen,” cries Merciful. “My master and mistress are in haste, and would fain ride forward if you will give them room.”
But the men in front made no show of compliance, and one burly fellow laid hands on my bridle reins and on Alison’s, staring impudently into my face.
“Body o’ the Pope!” says he. “What have we here? Whither away so fast, my pretty gentleman, with mistress madam? I’ faith, art come at the right time if thou wishest a score of proper fellows to drink her health.”
“Good friend,” says I, very anxious to keep my temper,“I wish naught but to proceed upon my way with as much speed as possible. We are on business of importance, and have no time for aught that would hinder us.”
“Shalt not pass until we have drunk madam’s good health!” he cried vociferously. He turned, shouting to his fellows, “Hey, lads, see what the morn brings us—a pair o’ runaway lovers, as I am a true man. Come, Master Solemn Face, let’s see the colour of thy money that we may drink——”
But at that moment an officer came out of the inn calling loudly for order.
“Silence, men!” he shouted. “Is this Bedlam that you all talk together like so many madmen? Sure, I command the most unruly troop in His Majesty’s service! What have you there, Sergeant Strong?” he says, pushing his way through the crowd towards the man who held our bridles. A sudden turn of one of the torches threw a glare of light across Alison’s face. The officer doffed his hat on the instant and came closer to us, holding it in his hand.
“Sir,” says I, seizing the advantage, “I am travelling with my wife and servant for Hull, and am anxious to lose no time on the road. If you’ll desire your men to give us room we’ll proceed,” I says, giving him a low bow.
“I crave a thousand pardons if my fellows have offered you a rudeness, sir,” says he, bowing to the ground. “Sergeant Strong, give way—get the troops together and call the roll.” He turned to us again as the big man moved off. “You will pardon my fellows, sir,” he says, looking very admiringly at Alison. “They are somewhat cock-a-whoop because of a trifling victory gained last night. So you are for Hull?” says he, seeming loth to say farewell to us.
“And are in much haste to get there, sir,” I says.
“I and my troops are for Beverley,” says he. “We go the same road as far as South Cave. Let me advise you to accept our escort—the enemy is in force across the river, and madam might find it unpleasant to fall into their hands. If you will accept our protection——”
“Why, sir,” says I, very impatient, “I thank you very heartily. But we are in great haste and must needs ride fast——”
“Your beasts seem spent now,” says he, with a sharp look at the horses. “I think our heavy cattle will match them.”
“Take his offer,” whispers Merciful at my elbow.
“In that case, sir,” says I,“I accept your offer gladly. I daresay we shall be the better of your protection.”
“It shall be willingly bestowed, sir,” says he, still mighty polite. “But since we do not start for an hour (I wait that space in order to join a troop that is riding to meet me at the ferry) I would advise you to give your horses a feed of corn and to refresh yourselves at yonder inn. The benefit will be yours, sir.”
Now, I had not bargained for any delay, being in a great anxiety to push forward, but I reflected that our beasts were weary, and that an hour’s rest would help them to bear the further strain to which we must needs subject them. I therefore dismounted, and having assisted Alison to alight, led her within the inn, leaving our horses to the care of Merciful Wiggleskirk, who lost no time in conducting them to the stables.
The officer, preceding us into the inn, called loudly for the landlord, who bowed the three of us into his best apartment and desired to know our pleasure. As for me and Alison I think we had no stomach for either eating or drinking, but I desired the man to set his best before us, and we made some show of breaking our fast. Meanwhile the officer had introduced himself to us, and seemed highly desirous to make as good anappearance as possible, protesting that as a true servant of His Majesty it was his duty to protect the King’s loyal subjects—all of which, I take it, was in the way of so much tribute to my wife’s beauty, and a sure proof that a woman’s prettiness can achieve more than all the common sense and reason in the world put together.
“I’ faith!” says he. “I am glad to meet you, sir, and am unreservedly obliged to you and your lady for your kindness in giving me your company. ’Tis poor work for a man of quality to ride at the head of his troop with none fitting to hold converse with him. I promise myself,” he says, with yet another bow, “a most profitable ride ’twixt now and our parting.”
“Why, sir,” says I, “’tis very good of you to say so, though I fear we shall prove but poor company.” And indeed I felt but little disposed to hold converse with him or any other, being sore anxious as to our future movements. But Alison, full of her woman’s wit—albeit as anxious as I—came to my aid and talked to him, making herself mighty agreeable—much to his pleasure—until the hour was past and the troop departed, the officer with Alison and myself bringing up the rear.
As we rode along the river side into Hookvillage the dawn came, grey and misty. There was a bank of white fog over the Ouse, which was there a wide and swift river, mightily swollen at that moment by the recent rains. Down at the ferry the air was cold and thin, and I saw Alison shiver as we sat our horses by the water’s edge. I looked round me at the dull, flat landscape, and the wintry river at our feet, and felt a sense of coming trouble. “I have led thee into perilous doings, sweetheart,” says I, laying my hand on hers. But she looked at me with the rarest smile, and I knew then that because of her love for me she was willing to face whatever might come.
Our friend the officer, while we waited at the ferry for the troop that was to join him, amused himself by drawing up his men in order of battle and putting them through various movements. I think he designed these things in order to draw our attention to his own person and importance, for he was in sooth a perfect coxcomb, and seemed to delight in showing off his airs and graces. So concerned were we with our own thoughts, however, that we perceived little of what went on immediately before us. Alison and I sat apart, conversing now and then. Merciful Wiggleskirk walked his horse up and down the road in afashion that clearly proved his uneasiness. And presently, after an excursion to the end of the turn he came back to my side, and drawing rein as if naught had happened, leaned over and spoke to me in a low voice.
“Master,” says he, “we are pursued.”
“Pursued?” says I. “What makes you think that?”
“I have just been to the top of the road,” says he, “and caught sight of a troop of horse coming along under the woods a mile off. In another minute or so you’ll hear the sound of their horses’ feet,” he says, nodding his head towards the highway.
“Why, man,” says I, “’tis the troop of horse that this officer is now waiting for that you have seen. He expects them to join him here every moment.”
“No,” says he, “for these are Roundheads—I can tell the difference ’twixt Roundheads and Cavaliers at three miles. We are pursued, master, as I feared we should be, and if Anthony Dacre has a hand in it we shall have to fight. And the question is,” he says, with a glance at Alison, “what is to be done with madam?”
“Have no fear on that point,” says I.“Fetch the officer to us, Merciful, and let us tell him our fears. If we are pursued we may as well ask our new friends to defend us.”
While he rode off I turned to Alison and told her our fears. “I doubt,” says I, “that Anthony has escaped the Stirks and raised a hue-and-cry after us.”
“We will not be separated, Dick,” says she. “If it comes to the worst give me a pistol and they shall see that I can use it. Only promise to let us keep together,” she says, imploringly.
But ere I could answer, the officer comes riding up with Merciful at his heels. I lost no time in telling him our fears. “Sir,” says I, “you have been so kind to us that I scarce like to trouble you with more of our misfortunes, but we are like to be in a sore plight. The fact is that I and my wife—and ’twas but yesterday that we were married—are closely pursued by a troop of Roundheads from Fairfax’s camp at Pomfret, and my man has just sighted them along the road there. You can even now hear their horses’ feet.”
“Faith,” says he, “I do hear something of that sort, but I think ’tis the troop that I am to meet here.”
“No, master,” says Merciful, “they are Roundheads—I observed their headgear narrowly.”
“Then we are in for another fight!” cries theofficer, rubbing his hands. “Have no fear, sir—do you and your lady sit apart, and you shall see as pretty a bit of war-play as you could wish for. Hold—I have it! Do you conduct madam, sir, into yonder house, and let your man stable your beasts at the rear. I promise you we will soon settle these crop-eared rogues, and be ready to escort you onwards within the half-hour. Hah!—now I hear them plainly—suffer me to get my men in order.”
Now, I should dearly have liked to draw my sword, and had a share in the coming fight, but the officer’s advice seemed good, and in a trice all three of us had ridden round to the rear of the house overlooking the ferry, and were off our horses. While Merciful hurried them into the barn, Alison and I made for the house. There was no person to be seen within but an old woman, who scuttled away at the mere sight of us. And that being no time for ceremony we made our way to an upper chamber, whose windows looked out upon the street, and from behind the curtains gazed at the progress of events below. From our point of vantage we could see along the highway by which we had ridden from Snaith. Almost immediately before us it made a sudden turn, where it dippedtowards the ferry, and it was in this turn, hidden by a tall farmstead that the Royalist captain had drawn up his men along the roadside. I saw his plan on the instant: it was to let the advancing troop sweep by, and then to hem them in between the high ground and the river bank.
The Roundheads came on at a gallop, evidently unconscious of the fact that the ferry lay close before them. They rode in a close-packed body, some thirty in number, and at their head as they swung round the bend, I saw the evil face of Anthony Dacre, whose eyes were like those of a hound that scents its prey.
With a swing and clatter that woke all the echoes of the neighbouring houses, the troop dashed round the corner of the farmstead and into the presence of the Royalists. Every man of the latter had his sword drawn, and as the Roundheads swung by, pulling on their horses’ reins lest they should go over the river bank, they charged with a crash that made the blood tingle in my veins, and Alison cover her face with her hands. And in good sooth ’twas no pleasant sight that we gazed upon. Three men had gone over the bank and were perishingmiserably in the grey stream, calling on their friends for help that could not be given. Here and there, trampled underfoot by the horses, and presently battered into unrecognisable masses of flesh and blood, lay men that had been cut down ere ever they could draw weapon. High above the curses and cries, the shouting of the men and the neighing of the plunging horses, rose the clatter of the swords as Roundhead and Royalist hewed away at each other, and the battle cry of the latter, roared from the leathern lungs of Sergeant Strong, who was here and there like a mad bull, slaying at every stroke.
I suppose it was all over in a few moments, for the Roundheads, riding full tilt into an ambuscade, had never a chance, and were overwhelmed in point of numbers into the bargain. But as the fight ebbed away I seized Alison’s arm. “Look, look!” I cried, and pointed to the road beneath.
There was a sort of small courtyard immediately before us, and within it, swept aside by the struggling mass of men and horses about them, Anthony Dacre and the Royalist officer fought, foot to foot. Both were covered with blood, and both fought fiercely as if for life. But the Royalistwas pressing Anthony hard; he retreated yard by yard until the wall lay close behind him; I saw in his face the look that comes to a man’s eyes when he knows that death is at last before him, not to be denied. And at that I threw open the casement to lean out and see the end. At the sound, Anthony Dacre looked up. He saw me, and Alison at my shoulder, and I saw his lips form a curse. And at the same instant the Royalist’s sword passed through his heart, and I caught Alison away lest she should see him fall and die. But at the sound of a bugle I went back to the window, and saw the troop that we had waited for riding up to the ferry to find their comrades hot with the heat of victory over the Roundheads who lay dead or dying in the middle of the highway.
And so it was all over, and we were free of our enemies. Late that night Alison and I, with Merciful Wiggleskirk in attendance, were in the Market Place at Hull, weary and sore bespent, but devoutly thankful. Ere daybreak next morning we were sailing down the Humber, and so at last I had some leisure to look at my wife and assure myself that all the events of the past week were realities rather than dreams. But that they were realities her sweetness did most abundantlyprove to me, and in spite of the fact that we were exiles, she and I spent our first years of married life in Holland, in as sweet a contentment as lovers could wish for.
But after many years we came back to England and to the old house. And since it was half-ruined, I set to work to rebuild it, and somewhat altered it in appearance and design. We transferred Sir Nicholas’s body from its first quarters to its proper resting-place. On the spot where we first buried him I now spend many hours, sitting in his chair, and telling my eldest son, Nicholas, of the brave doings that I have had in our old house. And for the sake of him and of his brothers and sisters—for I warrant you we have been blessed with a numerous progeny!—I have written down this chronicle at such times as I have had naught better to do.
When I showed the first pages of this book to my wife, she took some objection.
“Sure,” says she, “I never called you Master Poltroon.”
“Sweetheart,” says I, “you did.”
“But you called me Mistress Spitfire,” says she.
“And that’s what you were,” says I.
“Was I?” says she. “Well, maybe I was—but you were never Master Poltroon.”
Faith! ’tis mighty comforting that she has so good an opinion of me.
THE END.
TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
When Charles the First was KingLife in ArcadiaThe Wonderful WapentakeGod’s FailuresAt the Gate of the FoldThe Quarry FarmWhere Highways CrossBallads of Revolt
When Charles the First was King
Life in Arcadia
The Wonderful Wapentake
God’s Failures
At the Gate of the Fold
The Quarry Farm
Where Highways Cross
Ballads of Revolt
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“In a series of a dozen epistles, more or less connected, he has set forth, with a vividness which one would suppose can only be the result of careful personal study, the grim humour and the grimmer pathos of the lives that are lived about Cradley, Dudley, and Walsall. It is to the author’s credit that in depicting these lives he has been able, while in no way ignoring the lawless animal traits natural to a swarming and neglected population, to steer almost wholly clear of the Zolaesque crudities in which some writers whom one could name would probably have revelled. Take it all in all, this is the strongest book of short stories which we have come across for some time.... One feels that it would have taken a good many critics to write one of these stories.”
Scotsman.
“The atmosphere of the book is as hard and grimy as a coal-mine itself; but the charm lies in this, and it is true to the nature of its subject. Its pathos—and there is plenty of it—is never forced or mawkish; and the stories never fail to be impressive. The book will enhance the reputation its author gained by his ‘Neighbours of Ours,’ and will no doubt be widely read.”
Glasgow Herald.
“Mr. Nevinson has succeeded in exacting the marrow from his subject in a fashion that should place him at once high amongst our contemporary writers of fiction. His vein of romance, his slow but delicate humour, and his strong humanity of touch remind us more of Miss Mary Wilkins than of any other living writer that we can call to mind. His book is one to read and re-read, and then to lay aside for future enjoyment.”
Crown 8vo, cloth, 4s. 6d. net.
THE TOUCH OF SORROW.
ByEDITH HAMLET.(EDITH LYTTELTON).
Times.
“The style is good and the observations are keen enough.”
Daily Chronicle.
“‘The Touch of Sorrow’ appears to be the author’s first novel, and as such she may safely congratulate herself both upon its promise and its performance.”
Daily Telegraph.
“Miss Hamlet’s powerful story.”
Dundee Advertiser.
“The course of the story is simple and free from complication, yet it is written with freshness and engrossing charm. At some points, indeed, the interest of the reader is strained almost to intensity. Miss Hamlet has studied human nature, and particularly her own sex, to advantage, and more of her wholesome and pleasing studies will be welcomed.”
Daily Mail.
“‘Edith Hamlet’—under which designation is veiled the identity of the Hon. Mrs. Alfred Lyttelton—has set forth this main theme with much tenderness, insight, and emotional power. The character of Stella is perfectly natural, and is consistent throughout. The book is intensely womanly, in the best sense of the word, and many of the writer’s ‘thoughts by the way’ are fresh and striking.”
Westminster Gazette.
“It is extraordinarily refreshing, by turns jaded and perplexed as we are with sex problems and complications arising out of the married state, to watch, absolutely without their aid, the birth and development in this joyous, radiant being of the Sorrow Soul.”
Glasgow Herald.
“This thoughtful and able story.”
Liverpool Post.
“A charming literary effort and clever study.”
The Guardian.
“Stella Morecombe is one of those rare heroines whose charm is felt by the reader as well as described by the writer.”
Crown 8vo, cloth, 4s. 6d. net.
IN THE WAKE OF KING JAMES.
BySTANDISH O’GRADY,
AUTHOR OF “ULRICK THE READY.”
Athenæum.
“No one now living writes a better story of adventure than Mr. Standish O’Grady.... It has every quality that is of value in such a story.... It ought to be devoured for pure delight by all the young people in the kingdom.”
The Speaker.
“A robust and excellent piece of work.... Mr. Standish O’Grady must be warmly congratulated upon so unequivocal a success as he has achieved in this thrilling romance.”
Manchester Guardian.
“A striking and powerful romance of love and adventurous peril.... Mr. O’Grady is to be congratulated and thanked for a spirited piece of imagination, full of swing and vigour. This story, at any rate, does not ‘buckle and bow the mind to the nature of things,’ but quickens the pulse and stirs the blood in the name of chivalry.”
Scotsman.
“The tale is vivid and vigorous above most, and there is about it a fine briny flavour of the Atlantic.... Old Thomas is certainly a villain of the first water, and what is more to the purpose, a villain of a new type.”
Freeman’s Journal.
“Without any disparagement to the power and brilliancy of any of Mr. O’Grady’s work, we think that we have here perhaps the most interesting and finished of his novels.... The hero’s adventures, mishaps, and captivity in the grim old hold of his malevolent cousin, and his final rescue by the quick-witted and courageous Lady Sheela, will be read in the volume before us, and we will not spoil the reader’s enjoyment of the full flavour of those startling adventures by any attempted foretaste. ‘In the Wake of King James’ will undoubtedly do much to increase the already high reputation of its author.”
Weekly Irish Times.
“Do you want to read a thoroughly fresh and stirring romance? If you do, get Mr. Standish O’Grady’s last novel, ‘In the Wake of King James.’ ...The wild work that goes on in the old castle, and the hair-breadth escapes ... should be enough to quicken the pulses of the most sluggish-blooded reader.”
Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net.
DR. VERMONT’S FANTASY,
AND OTHER STORIES.
ByHANNAH LYNCH.
Athenæum.
“Original observation and a rare reticence of detail.”
Daily Chronicle.
“Miss Lynch has proved in previous work that she has at command the most precious of gifts, the gift of charm. These stories are all, more or less, interpenetrated by it. Nor is the working of it in us merely while we read. It recurs unbidden in the ‘sessions of sweet, silent thought.’”
Vanity Fair.
“Miss Hannah Lynch’s new volume, ‘Dr. Vermont’s Fantasy,’ is the finest piece of feminine literary work, take it all in all, that has been accomplished in Great Britain during the present generation. Miss Lynch belongs to no school; she has chosen the best models here, there, and everywhere, and formed her own style. I cannot say what model has been dearest to her; but the general effect is Greek—the massive dignity, the repose—with the exception of the story ‘Brases,’ which is supposed to be written by an excitable Frenchman—the cold simplicity keeping in check but never conquering the rich warm temperament of the Irish author.... Her matter in the average cheap and skilful hands would win immediate recognition, so abundant and full of interest is it.”
Dundee Advertiser.
“The climax, great because of its very simplicity, shows that the authoress has a very rare gift as a writer of fiction. In its entirety the collection offers not only something new, but something that will remain attractive. It might be the work of any one of the best French writers. Not that the style is copied. It is the work of one who has not only studied French fiction as a scholar, but who has herself marked and pondered over the life from which she has drawn her men and women.”
Scotsman.
“This writer’s work is distinguished among the host of similar productions that clamour for public attention to-day by being much stronger than the ruck. The pictures of life of to-day are recognisable ... they have no mawkishness in tone, and, while laying the shadows heavily in, do not forget that the prime office of the literary, as of the other arts, is to please. The skill they show in giving literary shape to the less obvious moods and phases of feeling that a present-day reader must recognise as peculiar to his own generation is remarkable; and there is not one of the stories that has not its own peculiar variation of this consistently maintained interest.”
Crown 8vo, 4s. 6d. net.
IN THE HEART OF THE HILLS:
A NEW ENGLAND STORY.
BySHERWIN CODY.
Scotsman.
“The tale is told in a simple, straightforward way, and the peace that is in the everlasting hills pervades and inspires it.”
Glasgow Herald.
“An extremely pretty and natural story quaintly and simply told, and has a rural atmosphere that is very alluring to the jaded palate.”
Illustrated London News.
“A delightful story.... It is some time since we have read a sweeter love-scene than that with which the book happily closes; and, indeed, throughout you feel yourself in Arden.”
Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net.
VENUS AND CUPID;
Or, A TRIP FROM MOUNT OLYMPUS TO LONDON.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“THE FIGHT AT DAME EUROPA’S SCHOOL.”
Nottingham Express.
“This fantastic romance is calculated to offer delightful amusement to a multitude of readers, and ought to have a great run of popularity. It is a long time since we have read anything so provocative of laughter. The idea of the book is most happy and humorous; and its development leaves nothing to be desired. Every chapter is full of fun and frolic, and it is impossible to find a dull page from the beginning to the end of the story. It would be unfair to disclose the particulars of this unique ‘personally conducted tour’; but we warmly recommend holiday-makers and all others who are on the look-out for a lively and entertaining book to secure a copy of ‘Venus and Cupid,’ and if they do not find in it magic to brighten a wet day at the seaside, they are quite free to anathematise the reviewer. Our verdict is that a more mirth-provoking romance has seldom if ever been published.”
Birmingham Post.
“The story is thoroughly consistent, that having accepted the position—the visit of these august personages to earth—all the details are worked out in harmony with this conception, with abundant fun and humour and fancy. Cupid—or Q, as he is called—is the most delectable little rogue, and we were quite sorry to say good-bye to him.”
Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net each volume.
EMANUEL.
By HENRIK PONTOPPIDAN.
Translated from the Danish byMrs.Edgar Lucas.
Illustrated by Miss NELLY ERICHSEN.
Daily Chronicle.
“Extremely interesting story ... most delicately delineated, and charms us by its idyllic grace and purity.”
Manchester Guardian.
“As a novel pure and simple the book is altogether out of the common, and the firmness of its character-drawing, the sympathetic rendering of nature’s background, and the prominence given to the life of the clergy, it reminds one not a little of the work of Ferdinand Fabre, the novelistpar excellenceof French clerical life.”
Glasgow Herald.
“Among the many Scandinavian works that have of late appeared in an English dress, few have worn it with a more charming air than this tale of Henrik Pontoppidan’s, for a really excellent version of which we have to thank Mrs. Lucas.... The tale is told in a fashion that recalls, among our own writers, the intimate knowledge and loving descriptions of Miss Mitford or Mrs. Gaskell. It is not very far from being a work of real genius.”
UNIFORM WITH THE ABOVE.
THE PROMISED LAND.
Pall Mall Gazette.
“A story simple and strong, with much quiet pathos, keen analytic power, and graphic picturing of character and place. It is a book to read, enjoy, and muse over, both for its domestic and political interest.”
Scotsman.
“It is told with so equable an art and with so much fidelity, both to the general life which a reader of any nationality can understand, and to the local conditions to Denmark, that it is always full of a quiet intense interest. The English version is throughout well done, and it has the advantage of a series of pleasant illustrations from the pen of Miss Nelly Erichsen.”
Manchester Guardian.
“It is impossible to read it without feeling that Henrik Pontoppidan is an artist of the first rank.”
Crown 8vo, cloth. 3s. 6d. net.
THE STORY OF A MARRIAGE.
By Mrs. ALFRED BALDWIN,
AUTHOR OF “WHERE TOWN AND COUNTRY MEET,” ETC.
Illustrated by J. AYTON SYMINGTON.
Pall Mall Gazette.
“We have not seen for some time anything that, without any suggestion of imitation, more vividly recalls the manner of George Eliot than do some of Mrs. Baldwin’s characters.”
National Observer.
“Mrs. Baldwin has a very pleasant humour of her own, and a rare gift of characterisation.”
Athenæum.
“‘The Story of a Marriage’ shows considerable promise for the future of its author. It contains several excellent character-sketches, drawn with real humour and insight.”
St. James’s Gazette.
“Uncommonly well written.”
Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt top. 3s. 6d. net.
THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND,
AND OTHER GHOST STORIES.
By Mrs. ALFRED BALDWIN,
AUTHOR OF “THE STORY OF A MARRIAGE,” ETC.
Illustrated by J. AYTON SYMINGTON.
Leeds Mercury.
“For those who love a good, downright, thrilling tale of the supernatural, just the thing.”
Pall Mall Gazette.
“A handful of weird stories, as calculated to ‘freeze our blood’ as were the Fat Boy’s revelations to the Maiden Aunt. Are a welcome collection for the lovers of the supernatural.”
Scotsman.
“Believe or disbelieve it as you like; at least you cannot deny that it is a capital story and well told.”
Athenæum.
“The author shows considerable skill in working up to a climax.”
Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net. each.
THE ILLUSTRATED NOVELS OF
ALPHONSE DAUDET.