"They weren't, but they might have been. Is that it?"
"No. Anything might have been. There's no use speculating about what can't be now."
"I suppose that's true. Well?"
"Something is troubling Evelyn, and I'll tell you what I think it is. I think it was Saxton all along."
"I always told you he was a good fellow. He's really shown me some attentions, and that's more than most of the young men have done, except Warry. Warry was nice to everybody. But Saxton's alive and hearty and hasn't skipped for parts unknown. Why is Evelyn mourning?" He shook the glass until the ice tinkled pleasantly.
"I don't know. Maybe—maybe he doesn't understand!"
"He isn't stupid," said the general, thoughtfully.
"Of course he isn't."
"It may be that he isn't interested—that she doesn't appeal to him. Such a thing is conceivable."
"No, it isn't! Of course it isn't!"
The general laughed at her scornful rejection of the idea.
"You tell me, then."
"What I think is, that there is some reason—perhaps some point of honor with him—that keeps him away from her. He was Warry's friend. He was nearer Warry in his last years than any one. Don'tyou think that something of that sort may be the matter?"
The general was greatly amused, and he laughed so that Mrs. Whipple's own dignity was shaken.
"Amelia," he said, "your analytical powers are too sharp for this world. You're shaving it down pretty fine, it seems to me. I wish you'd tell me what you base that on."
"I'm not basing it; but it seems so natural that that should be the way."
The syphon gurgled harshly and sputtered, and the general put it down sadly.
"Now that you've solved the riddle in your own mind, how are you going to proceed? You'd better not try army tactics on a civilian job. Saxton isn't a second lieutenant, to be regulated by the commandant's wife."
"He's a dear!" declared Mrs. Whipple irrelevantly. "If Evelyn Porter wants him, she's going to have him."
"Oh, Lord!" The general took up his syphon to carry it back to the case in the pantry. "He's 'a dear,' is he? Amelia, John Saxton weighs at least one hundred and eighty pounds. I don't believe I'd call him 'a dear.' I'd reserve that for slim, elderly persons like me, or young girls just out of school." He stood swinging the syphon at arm's length. "Now, if my advice were worth anything, I'd tell you to let these young people alone. If you've guessed the true inwardness of this matter—as you probably haven't—they'll come out all right."
"Of course they'll come out all right," she answered, dreamily. The swinging door in the dining-room fannedupon her answer as the general strode through into the pantry.
For several weeks following Mrs. Whipple continued to think of Evelyn and her affairs. Evelyn was not an object of pity, and yet there was a certain pathos about her. Her position in the town as the daughter of its wealthiest citizen isolated her, it seemed to Mrs. Whipple. A girl would be less than human if the experiences to which Evelyn had been subjected did not make a profound impression upon her. Mrs. Whipple had seen a good deal of trouble in her day. She felt that Evelyn had learned too much of life in one lesson; if she could ease the future for her, she wished to do it. With such hopes as these she occupied herself as spring waxed old and summer held the land.
Porter insisted that Margrave should not have the Traction Company at any price, though the general manager of the Transcontinental was persistent in his offers. As Margrave did not care to deal with Porter, who was not, he complained, "an easy trader," he negotiated with Fenton and Saxton. After several weeks of ineffectual effort he concluded that Fenton and Saxton were almost as difficult. He called Saxton a "stubborn brute" to Saxton's face; but offered to continue him in a responsible position with the company if he would help him with the purchase. He still wanted to control the company for political reasons, but there was also the fact of his having invested the money of several of his friends in the Transcontinental directorate, prior to the last annual meeting.
These gentlemen had begun to inquire in a respectful way when Margrave was going to effect thecoupwhich, he had been assuring them, he had planned. They had, they were aware, no rights as against the bondholders; and as Margrave understood this perfectly well, he was very anxious to buy in the property at receiver's sale for an amount that would satisfy Porter and his allies, and give him a chance to "square himself," as heput it. This required additional money, but he was able to command it from his "people," for the receiver had demonstrated that the property could be made to pay. While these negotiations were pending, Saxton and Fenton were able to satisfy their curiosity as to the relations which had existed between Wheaton and Margrave. Margrave had no shame in confessing just what had passed between them; he viewed it all as a joke, and explained, without compunction, exactly the manner in which he had come by the shares which had belonged to Evelyn Porter and James Wheaton.
When Saxton came back from Colorado, Porter was ill again, and Fenton was seriously disposed to accept a price which Margrave's syndicate had offered. Margrave's position had grown uncomfortable; he had to get himself and "his people" out of a scrape at any cost. His plight pleased Fenton, who tried to make Porter see the irony of it; and this view of it, as much as the high offer, finally prevailed upon him. He saw at last the futility of securing and managing the property for himself; his health had become a matter of concern, and Fenton insisted that a street railway company would prove no easier to manage than a bank.
Porter was, as John had said, "a peculiar brick," and after the final orders of the court had been made, and Saxton's fees allowed, Porter sent him a check for five thousand dollars, without comment. Fenton made him keep it; Porter had done well in Traction and he owed much to John; but John protested that he preferred being thanked to being tipped; but the lawyer persuaded him at last that the idiosyncrasies of the rich ought to be respected.
Porter felt his burdens slipping from him with unexpected satisfaction. He grew jaunty in his old way as he chid his contemporaries and friends for holding on; as for himself, he told them, he intended "to die rested," and he adjusted his affairs so that they would give him little trouble in the future. The cottage which he had bought on the North Shore was a place they had all admired the previous summer. Porter had liked it because there was enough ground to afford the lawn and flower beds which he cultivated with so much satisfaction at home. The place was called "Red Gables," and Porter had bought it with its furniture, so that there was little to do in taking possession but to move in. The Whipples were their first guests, going to them in mid-July, when they were fully installed.
The elder Bostonians whom Porter had met the previous summer promptly renewed their acquaintance with him. He had attained, in their eyes, a new dignity in becoming a cottager. The previous owner of "Red Gables" had lately failed in business and they found in the advent of the Porters a sign of the replenishing of the East from the West, which interested them philosophically. Porter lacked their own repose, but they liked to hear him talk. He was amusing and interesting, and they had already found his prophecies concerning the markets trustworthy. The ladies of their families heard with horror his views on the Indian question, which were not romantic, nor touched with the spirit of Boston philanthropy; but his daughter was lovely, they said, and her accent was wholly inoffensive.
So the Porters were well received, and Evelyn was glad to find her father accepting his new leisure so complacently. She and Mrs. Whipple agreed that he and the general were as handsome and interesting as any of the elderly Bostonians among their neighbors; and they undoubtedly were so.
John Saxton sat in the office of the Traction Company on a hot night in July. Fenton had just left him. The transfer to the Margrave syndicate had been effected and John would no more sign himself "John Saxton, Receiver." His work in Clarkson was at an end. The Neponset Trust Company had called him to Boston for a conference, which meant, he knew, a termination of his service with them. He had lately sold the Poindexter ranch, and so little property remained on the Neponset's books that it could be cared for from the home office. He had not opened the afternoon mail. He picked up a letter from the top of the pile and read:
San Francisco, July 10, 189—.My Dear Sir:I hesitate about writing you, but there are some things which I should like you to understand before I go away. I had fully expected to remain with you and Bishop Delafield and to return to Clarkson that last morning at Poindexter's. I cannot defend myself for having run away; it must have seemed a strange thing to you that I did so. I had fully intended acting on the bishop's advice, which I knew then, and know now, was good. But when the west-bound train came, my courage left me; I could not go back and face the people I had known, after what had happened. I toldyou the truth there in the ranch house that night; every word of it was true. Maybe I did not make it clear enough how weak I am. I do not know why God made me so; I know that I tried to fight it; but I was vain and foolish. Things came too easy for me, I guess; at any rate I was never worthy of the good fortune that befell me. It seemed to me that for two years everything I did was a mistake. I suppose if I had been a real criminal, and not merely a coward, I should not have entangled myself as I did and brought calamity upon other people.When I reached here, I found employment with a shipping house. I have told my story to one of the firm, who has been kind to me. He seems to understand my case, and is giving me a good chance to begin over again. I suppose the worst possible things have been said about me, and I do not care, except that I hope the people in Clarkson will not think I was guilty of any wrong-doing at the bank. I read in the newspapers that I had stolen the bank's money, and I hope that was corrected. The books must have proved what I say. I understand now that what I did was worse than stealing, but I should like you and Mr. Porter to know that I not only did not take other people's money, but that in my foolish relations with Margrave I did not receive a cent for the shares of stock which he took from me—neither for my own nor for those of Miss Porter. I don't blame Margrave; if I had not been a coward he could not have played with me as he did.The company is sending me to one of its South American houses. I go by steamer to-morrow, and you will not hear from me again. I should like you to know that I have neither seen nor heard anything of my brother since that night. With best wishes for your own happiness and prosperity,Yours sincerely,James Wheaton.John Saxton, Esq.
San Francisco, July 10, 189—.
My Dear Sir:
I hesitate about writing you, but there are some things which I should like you to understand before I go away. I had fully expected to remain with you and Bishop Delafield and to return to Clarkson that last morning at Poindexter's. I cannot defend myself for having run away; it must have seemed a strange thing to you that I did so. I had fully intended acting on the bishop's advice, which I knew then, and know now, was good. But when the west-bound train came, my courage left me; I could not go back and face the people I had known, after what had happened. I toldyou the truth there in the ranch house that night; every word of it was true. Maybe I did not make it clear enough how weak I am. I do not know why God made me so; I know that I tried to fight it; but I was vain and foolish. Things came too easy for me, I guess; at any rate I was never worthy of the good fortune that befell me. It seemed to me that for two years everything I did was a mistake. I suppose if I had been a real criminal, and not merely a coward, I should not have entangled myself as I did and brought calamity upon other people.
When I reached here, I found employment with a shipping house. I have told my story to one of the firm, who has been kind to me. He seems to understand my case, and is giving me a good chance to begin over again. I suppose the worst possible things have been said about me, and I do not care, except that I hope the people in Clarkson will not think I was guilty of any wrong-doing at the bank. I read in the newspapers that I had stolen the bank's money, and I hope that was corrected. The books must have proved what I say. I understand now that what I did was worse than stealing, but I should like you and Mr. Porter to know that I not only did not take other people's money, but that in my foolish relations with Margrave I did not receive a cent for the shares of stock which he took from me—neither for my own nor for those of Miss Porter. I don't blame Margrave; if I had not been a coward he could not have played with me as he did.
The company is sending me to one of its South American houses. I go by steamer to-morrow, and you will not hear from me again. I should like you to know that I have neither seen nor heard anything of my brother since that night. With best wishes for your own happiness and prosperity,
Yours sincerely,
James Wheaton.
John Saxton, Esq.
On his way home to the club Saxton stopped at Bishop Delafield's rooms, and found the bishop, as usual, preparing for flight. Time did not change Bishop Delafield. He was one of those men who reach sixty, and never, apparently, pass it. He and Saxton were fast friends now. The bishop missed Warry out of his life: Warry was always so accessible and so cheering. John Saxton was not so accessible and he had not Warry's lightness, but the Bishop of Clarkson liked John Saxton!
The bishop sat with his inevitable hand-baggage by his side and read Wheaton's letter through.
"How ignorant we are!" he said, folding it. "I sometimes think that we who try to minister to the needs of the poor in spirit do not even know the rudiments of our trade. We are pretty helpless with men like Wheaton. They are apparently strong; they yield to no temptations, so far as any man knows; they are exemplary characters. I suppose that they are living little tragedies all the time. The moral coward is more to be pitied than the open criminal. You know where to find the criminal; but the moral coward is an unknown quantity. Life is a strange business, John, and the older I get the less I think I know of it." He sighed and handed back the letter.
"But he's doing better than we might have expected him to," said Saxton. "A man's entitled to happiness if he can find it. He undoubtedly chose the easier part in running away. I can't imagine him coming back here to face the community after all that had happened."
"I don't know that I can either. Preaching is easierthan practising, and I'm not sure that I gave him the best advice at the ranch house that morning."
"Well, it was the only thing to do," Saxton answered. "I suppose neither you nor I was sure he told the truth; it was a situation that was calculated to make one skeptical. It isn't clear from his letter that the whole thing has impressed him in any great way. He's anxious to have us think well of him—a kind of retrospective vanity."
"But his punishment is great. It's not for us to pass on its adequacy. I must be going, John," and Saxton gathered up the battered cases and went out to the car with him.
Bishop Delafield always brought Warry back vividly to John, and as they waited on the corner he remembered his first meeting with the bishop, in Warry's rooms at The Bachelors'. And that was very long ago!
The days that followed brought uncertainty and doubt to the heart and mind of John Saxton. He had seen Evelyn several times before she left home, on occasions when he went to the house with Fenton for conferences with her father. He had intended saying good-by to her, but the Porters went hurriedly at last and he was not sorry; it was easier that way. But Mrs. Whipple, who was exercising a motherly supervision over John, had exacted a promise from him to come to Orchard Lane during the time that she and the general were to be with the Porters in their new cottage. When he went East, Saxton settled down at his club in Boston, and pretended that it was good to be at home again; but he went about with homesickness gnawing his heart. He had reason to be happy and satisfied with himself. He had practically concluded the difficult work which he had been sent to Clarkson to do; he had realized more money from their assets than the officers of the trust company had expected; and they held out to him the promise of employment in their Boston office as a reward. So he walked the familiar streets planning his future anew. He had succeeded in something at last, and he would stayin Boston, having, he told himself, earned the right to live there. The assistant secretaryship of the trust company, which had been mentioned to him, would be a position of dignity and promise. He had never hoped to do so well. Moreover, it would be pleasant to be near his sister, who lived at Worcester. There were only the two of them, and they ought to live near together.
It is, however, an unpleasant habit of the fates never to suffer us to debate simple problems long; they must throw in new elements to puzzle us. While he deferred going to Orchard Lane a new perplexity confronted him. One of Margrave's "people" came from New York as the representative of the syndicate that had purchased the Clarkson Traction Company, and sought an interview. John had met this gentleman at the time the sale was closed; he was a person of consequence in the financial world, who came quickly to the point of his errand. He offered John the position of general manager of the company.
Margrave, it appeared, was not to have full swing after all. He was to be president, but John's visitor intimated broadly that the position was to be largely honorary. They had looked into the matter thoroughly in New York and were anxious that the policy and methods of the receivership should continue. Mr. Margrave was an invaluable man, said the New Yorker, but his duties with the railroad company had so multiplied that he would be unable to give the necessary care to the street car management. John should have absolute authority. The syndicate would be greatly disappointed if he declined. A salary was named whichwas larger than John had ever dreamed of receiving in any occupation; and they wished an answer within a few days. John Saxton was human, and it was not easy to decline a salary of six thousand dollars for services which he knew he could perform, offered to him by a gentleman whom people were not in the habit of refusing. He remained indoors at the club all day, smoking many pipes in a fruitless effort to reconcile his resolves with his new problems.
The next day he thought he saw it all more clearly. Perhaps, he reflected, life in Boston would become endurable; there was his sister to consider, and he owed something to her; she was all he had. He went out and walked aimlessly through the hot streets, little heeding what he did. He realized presently that he had gone into a railway office and asked for a suburban time table. He carried this back to the club, where the atmosphere of his cool, quiet room soothed him; and he lay down on a couch and studied the list of Orchard Lane trains. He found that he could run out almost any hour of the day. He slept and woke refreshed, with the time table still grasped in his hand. He had been very foolish, he concluded; it would be a simple matter to go out to Orchard Lane to call on the Porters and Whipples, and he picked out one of the afternoon trains and marked it on the folder with a lead pencil. He spent the evening writing letters,—in particular a letter to the representative of the Clarkson Traction syndicate, declining the general managership; and the next afternoon when he went up to Orchard Lane he carried the letter sealed and stamped in his pocket, as a kind of talisman that would assure his safety.
It suited his righteous mood that he should find no one at home at Red Gables but Mr. Porter, who played golf all the morning and slept and experimented at landscape gardening all the afternoon. He welcomed John with unwonted cordiality, in the inexplicable way people have of being friendlier with a fellow townsman away from their common habitat than at home. He led the way to a cool and cozy corner of the broad veranda, where Japanese screens made a pleasant nook. The afternoon sea shimmered beyond the trees; the lawn was tended with urban care. Porter was very proud of the place and listened with approval to John's praise of it.
"Well, sir; it's cooler than Clarkson."
"A trifle, yes; the efforts of the Clarkson papers to make a summer resort of the town were never very successful." John's eyes rested on a wicker table where there were books and a little sewing basket, which it wrung his heart to see.
"Folks are all off somewhere. The Whipples are in town. Grant's gone sailing and Evelyn's out visiting or attending a push of some kind up the shore. But I guess I know when I've got a good thing. You don't catch me gadding into town when I've got a cool place to sit." He stretched his short legs comfortably. "I hope you'll smoke a cigar if you've got one. They've cut mine off, and Evelyn won't let me keep any around; thinks they'd be too much of a temptation."
"It's just as well to keep away from temptation," said John, not thinking of cigars. The sight of Porter and the mention of Clarkson brought his homesickness to an acute stage.
"I suppose our old friend Margrave's enjoying himself running the Traction Company by this time," continued Porter. "Well, sir; I guess he can have it. I thought for a while that I wanted it myself, but Fenton talked me out of it. It will pay, if they run it right; yes, sir; it's a good thing. But the trouble with Margrave is that he won't play square. It ain't in him. He's so crooked that they'll never find a coffin for him,—no, sir; not in stock; I guess it'll tax the manufacturer to his full capacity to fit Tim. But he seems to have those Transcontinental people on the string, and they're smart fellows, too. I reckon Margrave's a handy man for them. They used to sayIwas crooked,"—he twirled his straw hat, and changed the position of his legs; "but I guess that for pure sinuosity I was never in Tim Margrave's class. Well, Tim's a good enough fellow when all's said and done!"
"They say of him that he always stands by his friends," said John. "And that's a good deal."
"That's right. It's a whole lot," Porter assented.
There were some details connected with the final transfer of the Traction Company to Margrave's syndicate which Porter had not fully understood, or which Fenton had purposely kept from him; and he pressed John for new light on these matters. John answered or parried as he thought wisest. He was surprised to find how completely Porter had freed himself from business; the sometime banker talked of Clarkson affairs with an accentuation of the past tense, as if to wave them all away as far as possible. Events in themselves did not interest him particularly; but he took a mildly patronizing tone in philosophizing about them.He drew from John the fact that most of the property of the Neponset Trust Company in the Trans-Missouri region had been sold.
"That's good. I guess you've done pretty well for them, Saxton. But I hope we shan't lose you from Clarkson. We need young men out there; and I guess we've got as good a town as there is anywhere west of Chicago."
"I'm sure of that," said John; and he rose to go.
"I'm sorry the rest of them are not here," said Mr. Porter. "Evelyn ought to have been home before this. But you must come again. Come out and try the golf course and have dinner with us any time. I'm playing a little myself this summer. Evelyn and Grant can outdrive me all right; but they're not in it with me on putting. I'm one of the warmest putters on the links. You can find the shore path this way." He led John to an exit at the rear of the house, where there was an old apple orchard. "After you pass the lighthouse you come to a road that leads right into the village."
John left his greetings for the rest of the household and turned away. It had all happened much more easily than he had expected. He had burned all his bridges behind him now; he would mail his letter in the village; not that it would be delivered any sooner, but because it fell in with his spirit of renunciation that it should go hence with the Orchard Lane postmark.
He took it from his pocket and carried it in his hand. He found the walk very pleasant, with the rough shore of the bay on one hand and pretty villas on the other. Orchard Lane was not wholly a fiction ofnomenclature. There were veritable lanes that survived the coming of fashion and wealth, and spoke of simpler times on these northern shores. The path was not altogether straight, but described a tortuous line past the lighthouse which crouched on a point of the bay. There was a train at six o'clock; it was now five and he loitered along, stopping often to look out upon the sea. A group of people was gathered about a tea table on the sloping lawn in front of one of the houses. The colors of the women's dresses were bright against the dark green. It was a gay company; their laughter floated out to him mockingly. He wondered whether Evelyn was there, as he passed on, beating the rocky path with his stick.
Evelyn was not there; but her destination was that particular lawn and its tea table. Turning a fresh bend in the path he came upon her. He had had no thought of seeing her; yet she was coming down the path toward him, her picture hat framed in the dome of a blue parasol. He had renounced her for all time, and he should greet her guardedly; but the blood was singing in his temples and throbbing in his finger tips at the sight of her.
"This is too bad!" she exclaimed, as they met. "I hope you can come back to the house."
She walked straight up to him and gave him her hand in her quick, frank way.
"I'm sorry, but I must go in to town on this next train," he answered. He turned in the path and walked along beside her.
"This happened to be one of our scattering days, for all except father."
"We had a nice talk, he and I. Your place is charming."
They descended the shore path until they came to the villa where the tea drinkers were assembled.
"Don't let me detain you. I'm sure you were going to join these lotus eaters."
"I don't believe they need me," she answered, evasively. "They seem pretty busy. But if you're hungry—or thirsty, I can get something for you there." They passed the gate, walking slowly along. He knew that he ought to urge her to stop, and that he must hurry on to catch his train; but it was too sweet to be near her; this was the last time and it was his own!
"I seem to remember your tea drinking ways," she said. "You use only sugar and the hot water."
"But that was in the winter," he responded. He wished she had not referred to that afternoon, when he had been weak, just as he was proving weak now. A yacht was steaming slowly into the bay. It was a pretty, white plaything and they paused and commended its good qualities with the easy certainty of superficial knowledge. They walked on, passing the lighthouse, and slowly nearing the entrance to Red Gables. She led the talk easily and her light-heartedness added to his depression; every step he took was an error; but he would leave her at the gate when they came to it and go on to the village and his train. She paused abruptly and looked across a meadow which lay between them and the Red Gables orchard.
"I really believe it's a cow; yes, it is a cow," she declared, with quiet conviction.
"I thought it was a yacht. Was I as dull as that?" he demanded.
"Be it far from me to say; but I was getting a little breathless. Even the professional monologuists in the vaudeville have to rest."
He was not in a humor for frivolous conversation; but she had never been so gay. He had committed himself to general chaos and yet she was smiling amid the ruin of the world.
"I don't believe there are any letter boxes along here," she continued, looking straight ahead. He remembered his letter; he was stupidly carrying it in his hand; his fingers were cramped from their clutch upon it. It was not easy to resist her mood, and he now laughed in spite of himself.
"I'm disappointed. I thought they had all the necessities of a successful summer resort here,—even mails."
"Rather poor, don't you think? I suppose you were carrying the letter to get an opening for that."
They paused and John held open the little gate in the stone wall. He was grave again, and something of his seriousness communicated itself to her. Clearly, he thought, this was the parting of the ways. He had not relaxed his hold upon the letter; it was a straw at which he clutched for support.
"Won't you come in? There are plenty of trains and we'd like you to dine with us."
A great wave of loneliness and yearning swept over him. Her invitation seemed to create new and limitless distances that stretched between them. In fumbling with the latch of the gate he had dropped his letter. The wind caught and carried it out into the grass.
He went soberly after it and picked it up. There was a dogged resignation in his step as he walked slowly across the grass. While he was securing the bit of paper, she sat down on a rustic bench and waited for him.
"The fates don't agree with you about the letter, Mr. Saxton. You were looking for a letter box and they tried to thwart you."
"I'm not superstitious," said John, smiling a little.
"One needn't be,—to act on the direct hints of Providence."
She sat at comfortable ease on the bench, holding her parasol across her lap. There was room for two, and John sat down.
"Suppose it were a check on an overdrawn account; would Providence intervene to prevent an overdraft?"
"That's a commercial hypothesis; I think we should be above such considerations." Then they were silent. John bent forward with his elbows on his knees, playing with his stick and still holding the letter. The wind came up out of the sea and blew in their faces. The brass mountings of the yacht shone resplendent in the slanting rays of the lowering sun. It was very calm and restful in the orchard. Two robins came and inspected them, and then flew away to one of the gnarled old trees to gossip about them.
"It happens to be important," said John, indicating the letter.
"Oh, pardon me!" with real contrition. It was not her way to flirt with a young man over a letter. John held up the envelope so that she saw the superscription. She knew the name very well. It was constantly inthe newspapers, and the owner of it had dined once at her father's house.
"He's the head of the syndicate that has bought the Traction Company. He has asked me to stay in Clarkson and run the street cars."
"That's very nice. But merit gets rewarded sometimes."
"But I have refused the offer," he said quietly. He had not intended to tell her; but it was doubtless just as well; and it would alter nothing. "My work in Clarkson is finished," he went on. "Warry's affairs will make it necessary for me to go back from time to time, but it will not be home again."
"I'm sorry," she said. "I thought you were to be of us. But I suppose there is a greater difference between the East and the West than any one can understand who has not known both." They regarded each other gravely, as if this were, of course, the whole matter at issue.
"I can't go back,—it's too much; I can't do it," he said wearily.
"I know how it must be,—this last year and Warry! It was all so terrible—for all of us." She was looking away; the wind had freshened; the yacht's pennant stood out against the blue sky.
John rose and looked down at her. It was natural that she should include herself with him in a common grief for the man who had been his friend and whom she had loved. She had always been kind to him; her kindness stung him now, for he knew that it was because of Warry; and a resolve woke in him suddenly.He would not suffer her kindness under a false pretense; he could at least be honest with her.
"I can't go back, because he is not there; and because—because you are there! You don't know,—you should never know, but I was disloyal to Warry from the first. I let him talk to me from day to day of you; I let him tell me that he loved you; I never let him know—I never meant any one to know—" He ceased speaking; she was very still and did not look at him. "It was base of me," he went on. "I would gladly have died for him if he had lived; but now that he is dead I can betray him. I hate myself worse than you can hate me. I know how I must wound and shock you—"
"Oh, no!" she moaned.
But he went on; he would spare himself nothing.
"It is hideous—it was cowardly of me to come here."
His hands were clenched and his face twitched with pain. "Oh, if he had lived! If he had lived!"
She rose now and looked at him with an infinite pity. This is one of God's unreckoned gifts to man,—the gift of pity that He has made the great secret of a woman's eyes. Evelyn's were gray now, like the stretch of sea beyond her, where a mist was creeping shoreward over the blue water.
"If he had lived," she said very softly, looking away through the sun-dappled aisles of the orchard, "if he had lived—it would have been the same, John."
But he did not understand. His name as she spoke it rang strange in his ears. The letter had fallen to the ground and lay in the grass between them; he half stooped to pick it up, not knowing what he did.
She walked away through the orchard path, which suddenly became to him a path of gold that stretched into paradise; and he sprang after her with a great fear in his heart lest some barrier might descend and shut her out forever.
"Evelyn! Evelyn!"
It was not a voice that called her; it was a spirit, long held in thrall, that had shaken free and become a name.
It is fresh and spontaneous, having nothing ofthat wooden quality which is becomingassociated with the term"historical novel."HEARTSCOURAGEOUSBy HALLIE ERMINIE RIVES"Hearts Courageous" is made of new material, a picturesque yet delicate style, good plot and very dramatic situations. The best in the book are the defence of George Washington by the Marquis; the duel between the English officer and the Marquis; and Patrick Henry flinging the brand of war into the assembly of the burgesses of Virginia.Williamsburg, Virginia, the country round about, and the life led in that locality just before the Revolution, form an attractive setting for the action of the story.With six illustrations by A. B. Wenzell12mo. Price, $1.50The Bobbs-Merrill Company,Indianapolis
It is fresh and spontaneous, having nothing ofthat wooden quality which is becomingassociated with the term"historical novel."
HEARTSCOURAGEOUS
By HALLIE ERMINIE RIVES
"Hearts Courageous" is made of new material, a picturesque yet delicate style, good plot and very dramatic situations. The best in the book are the defence of George Washington by the Marquis; the duel between the English officer and the Marquis; and Patrick Henry flinging the brand of war into the assembly of the burgesses of Virginia.Williamsburg, Virginia, the country round about, and the life led in that locality just before the Revolution, form an attractive setting for the action of the story.
"Hearts Courageous" is made of new material, a picturesque yet delicate style, good plot and very dramatic situations. The best in the book are the defence of George Washington by the Marquis; the duel between the English officer and the Marquis; and Patrick Henry flinging the brand of war into the assembly of the burgesses of Virginia.
Williamsburg, Virginia, the country round about, and the life led in that locality just before the Revolution, form an attractive setting for the action of the story.
With six illustrations by A. B. Wenzell
12mo. Price, $1.50
The Bobbs-Merrill Company,Indianapolis
THE GREAT NOVEL OF THE YEARTHE MISSISSIPPIBUBBLEHow the star of good fortune rose and set and roseagain, by a woman's grace, for oneJohn Law, of LauristonA novel by EMERSON HOUGHEmerson Hough has written one of the best novels that has come out of America in many a day. It is an exciting story, with the literary touch on every page.—Jeannette L. Gilder, ofThe Critic.In "The Mississippi Bubble" Emerson Hough has taken John Law and certain known events in his career, and about them he has woven a web of romance full of brilliant coloring and cunning work. It proves conclusively that Mr. Hough is a novelist of no ordinary quality.—The Brooklyn Eagle.As a novel embodying a wonderful period in the growth of America "The Mississippi Bubble" is of intense interest. As a love story it is rarely and beautifully told. John Law, as drawn in this novel, is a great character, cool, debonair, audacious, he is an Admirable Crichton in his personality, and a Napoleon in his far-reaching wisdom.—The Chicago American.The Illustrations by Henry Hutt12mo, 452 pages, $1.50The Bobbs-Merrill Company,Indianapolis
THE GREAT NOVEL OF THE YEAR
THE MISSISSIPPIBUBBLE
How the star of good fortune rose and set and roseagain, by a woman's grace, for oneJohn Law, of Lauriston
A novel by EMERSON HOUGH
Emerson Hough has written one of the best novels that has come out of America in many a day. It is an exciting story, with the literary touch on every page.—Jeannette L. Gilder, ofThe Critic.In "The Mississippi Bubble" Emerson Hough has taken John Law and certain known events in his career, and about them he has woven a web of romance full of brilliant coloring and cunning work. It proves conclusively that Mr. Hough is a novelist of no ordinary quality.—The Brooklyn Eagle.As a novel embodying a wonderful period in the growth of America "The Mississippi Bubble" is of intense interest. As a love story it is rarely and beautifully told. John Law, as drawn in this novel, is a great character, cool, debonair, audacious, he is an Admirable Crichton in his personality, and a Napoleon in his far-reaching wisdom.—The Chicago American.
Emerson Hough has written one of the best novels that has come out of America in many a day. It is an exciting story, with the literary touch on every page.—Jeannette L. Gilder, ofThe Critic.
In "The Mississippi Bubble" Emerson Hough has taken John Law and certain known events in his career, and about them he has woven a web of romance full of brilliant coloring and cunning work. It proves conclusively that Mr. Hough is a novelist of no ordinary quality.—The Brooklyn Eagle.
As a novel embodying a wonderful period in the growth of America "The Mississippi Bubble" is of intense interest. As a love story it is rarely and beautifully told. John Law, as drawn in this novel, is a great character, cool, debonair, audacious, he is an Admirable Crichton in his personality, and a Napoleon in his far-reaching wisdom.—The Chicago American.
The Illustrations by Henry Hutt
12mo, 452 pages, $1.50
The Bobbs-Merrill Company,Indianapolis
YOUTH, SPLENDOR AND TRAGEDYFRANCEZKABy MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELLThere is no character in fiction more lovable and appealing than is Francezka. Miss Seawell has told a story of youth, splendor and tragedy with an art which links it with summer dreams, which drowns the somber in the picturesque, which makes pain and vice a stage wonder.The book is marked by the same sparkle and cleverness of the author's earlier work, to which is added a dignity and force which makes it most noteworthy."Here is a novel that not only provides the reader with a succession of sprightly adventures, but furnishes a narrative brilliant, witty and clever. The period is the first half of that most fascinating, picturesque and epoch-making century, the eighteenth. Francezka is a winsome heroine. The story has light and shadow and high spirits, tempered with the gay, mocking, debonair philosophy of the time."—Brooklyn Times.Charmingly illustrated by Harrison FisherBound in green and white and gold12mo, cloth. Price, $1.50The Bobbs-Merrill Company,Indianapolis
YOUTH, SPLENDOR AND TRAGEDY
FRANCEZKA
By MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL
There is no character in fiction more lovable and appealing than is Francezka. Miss Seawell has told a story of youth, splendor and tragedy with an art which links it with summer dreams, which drowns the somber in the picturesque, which makes pain and vice a stage wonder.The book is marked by the same sparkle and cleverness of the author's earlier work, to which is added a dignity and force which makes it most noteworthy."Here is a novel that not only provides the reader with a succession of sprightly adventures, but furnishes a narrative brilliant, witty and clever. The period is the first half of that most fascinating, picturesque and epoch-making century, the eighteenth. Francezka is a winsome heroine. The story has light and shadow and high spirits, tempered with the gay, mocking, debonair philosophy of the time."—Brooklyn Times.
There is no character in fiction more lovable and appealing than is Francezka. Miss Seawell has told a story of youth, splendor and tragedy with an art which links it with summer dreams, which drowns the somber in the picturesque, which makes pain and vice a stage wonder.
The book is marked by the same sparkle and cleverness of the author's earlier work, to which is added a dignity and force which makes it most noteworthy.
"Here is a novel that not only provides the reader with a succession of sprightly adventures, but furnishes a narrative brilliant, witty and clever. The period is the first half of that most fascinating, picturesque and epoch-making century, the eighteenth. Francezka is a winsome heroine. The story has light and shadow and high spirits, tempered with the gay, mocking, debonair philosophy of the time."—Brooklyn Times.
Charmingly illustrated by Harrison Fisher
Bound in green and white and gold
12mo, cloth. Price, $1.50
The Bobbs-Merrill Company,Indianapolis
A BRILLIANT AND SERIOUS NOVELCHILDREN OFDESTINYBy MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELLAuthor of Francezka and The Sprightly Romance of Marsac.One of Miss Seawell's most brilliant and serious works is this novel of Old Virginia. One lives again the patrician elegance of those mannerly times with all their freedom and all their limitations. In the midst of those quiet people—some rich in worldly goods, all rich in their birth and station—is born a man with the unrest of genius. Miss Seawell's powerful delineations of this man's character, her charming presentation of the old days, her sprightly humor, playing on the foibles of these early nineteenth century aristocrats, the tenderness and beautiful love of her heroine, show her as a brilliant writer and deep thinker. In none of her other books is her art so true and her touch so poised.With six Illustrations by A. B. Wenzell and aCover in Blue and Gold.12mo, Cloth. Price, $1.50The Bobbs-Merrill Company,Indianapolis
A BRILLIANT AND SERIOUS NOVEL
CHILDREN OFDESTINY
By MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL
Author of Francezka and The Sprightly Romance of Marsac.
One of Miss Seawell's most brilliant and serious works is this novel of Old Virginia. One lives again the patrician elegance of those mannerly times with all their freedom and all their limitations. In the midst of those quiet people—some rich in worldly goods, all rich in their birth and station—is born a man with the unrest of genius. Miss Seawell's powerful delineations of this man's character, her charming presentation of the old days, her sprightly humor, playing on the foibles of these early nineteenth century aristocrats, the tenderness and beautiful love of her heroine, show her as a brilliant writer and deep thinker. In none of her other books is her art so true and her touch so poised.
One of Miss Seawell's most brilliant and serious works is this novel of Old Virginia. One lives again the patrician elegance of those mannerly times with all their freedom and all their limitations. In the midst of those quiet people—some rich in worldly goods, all rich in their birth and station—is born a man with the unrest of genius. Miss Seawell's powerful delineations of this man's character, her charming presentation of the old days, her sprightly humor, playing on the foibles of these early nineteenth century aristocrats, the tenderness and beautiful love of her heroine, show her as a brilliant writer and deep thinker. In none of her other books is her art so true and her touch so poised.
With six Illustrations by A. B. Wenzell and a
Cover in Blue and Gold.
12mo, Cloth. Price, $1.50
The Bobbs-Merrill Company,Indianapolis
A SPLENDIDLY VITAL NARRATIONTHE MASTER OFAPPLEBYA romance of the CarolinasBy FRANCIS LYNDEViewed either as a delightful entertainment or as a skilful and finished piece of literary art, this is easily one of the most important of recent novels. One can not read a dozen pages without realizing that the author has mastered the magic of the story-teller's art. After the dozen pages the author is forgotten in his creations.It is rare, indeed, that characters in fiction live and love, suffer and fight, grasp and renounce in so human a fashion as in this splendidly vital narration.With pictures by T. de Thulstrup12mo, cloth. Price, $1.50The Bobbs-Merrill Company,Indianapolis
A SPLENDIDLY VITAL NARRATION
THE MASTER OFAPPLEBY
A romance of the Carolinas
By FRANCIS LYNDE
Viewed either as a delightful entertainment or as a skilful and finished piece of literary art, this is easily one of the most important of recent novels. One can not read a dozen pages without realizing that the author has mastered the magic of the story-teller's art. After the dozen pages the author is forgotten in his creations.It is rare, indeed, that characters in fiction live and love, suffer and fight, grasp and renounce in so human a fashion as in this splendidly vital narration.
Viewed either as a delightful entertainment or as a skilful and finished piece of literary art, this is easily one of the most important of recent novels. One can not read a dozen pages without realizing that the author has mastered the magic of the story-teller's art. After the dozen pages the author is forgotten in his creations.
It is rare, indeed, that characters in fiction live and love, suffer and fight, grasp and renounce in so human a fashion as in this splendidly vital narration.
With pictures by T. de Thulstrup
12mo, cloth. Price, $1.50
The Bobbs-Merrill Company,Indianapolis
WHAT BOOK BY A NEW AUTHOR HASRECEIVED SUCH PRAISE?WHAT MANNEROF MANBy EDNA KENTONThe novel, "What Manner of Man," is a study of what is commonly known as the "artistic temperament," and a novel so far above the average level of merit as to cause even tired reviewers to sit up and take hope once more.—New York Times.It will certainly stand out as one of the most notable novels of the year.—Philadelphia Press.It does not need a trained critical faculty to recognize that this book is something more than clever.—N. Y. Commercial.Note should be made of the literary charm and value of the work, and likewise of its eminently readable quality, considered purely as a romance.—Philadelphia Record.Literary distinction is stamped on every page, and the author's insight into the human heart gives promise of a brilliant future.—Chicago Record-Herald.The whole book is full of dramatic force. The author is an unusual thinker and observer, and has a rare gift for creative literature.—Philadelphia Evening Telegraph."What Manner of Man" is a study and a creation.—N. Y. World.12mo, Cloth, Gilt Top, $1.50The Bobbs-Merrill Company,Indianapolis
WHAT BOOK BY A NEW AUTHOR HASRECEIVED SUCH PRAISE?
WHAT MANNEROF MAN
By EDNA KENTON
The novel, "What Manner of Man," is a study of what is commonly known as the "artistic temperament," and a novel so far above the average level of merit as to cause even tired reviewers to sit up and take hope once more.—New York Times.It will certainly stand out as one of the most notable novels of the year.—Philadelphia Press.It does not need a trained critical faculty to recognize that this book is something more than clever.—N. Y. Commercial.Note should be made of the literary charm and value of the work, and likewise of its eminently readable quality, considered purely as a romance.—Philadelphia Record.Literary distinction is stamped on every page, and the author's insight into the human heart gives promise of a brilliant future.—Chicago Record-Herald.The whole book is full of dramatic force. The author is an unusual thinker and observer, and has a rare gift for creative literature.—Philadelphia Evening Telegraph."What Manner of Man" is a study and a creation.—N. Y. World.
The novel, "What Manner of Man," is a study of what is commonly known as the "artistic temperament," and a novel so far above the average level of merit as to cause even tired reviewers to sit up and take hope once more.—New York Times.
It will certainly stand out as one of the most notable novels of the year.—Philadelphia Press.
It does not need a trained critical faculty to recognize that this book is something more than clever.—N. Y. Commercial.
Note should be made of the literary charm and value of the work, and likewise of its eminently readable quality, considered purely as a romance.—Philadelphia Record.
Literary distinction is stamped on every page, and the author's insight into the human heart gives promise of a brilliant future.—Chicago Record-Herald.
The whole book is full of dramatic force. The author is an unusual thinker and observer, and has a rare gift for creative literature.—Philadelphia Evening Telegraph.
"What Manner of Man" is a study and a creation.—N. Y. World.
12mo, Cloth, Gilt Top, $1.50
The Bobbs-Merrill Company,Indianapolis
DIFFERENT AND DELIGHTFULUNDER THEROSEA Story of the Loves of a Duke and a JesterBy FREDERIC S. ISHAMAuthor of The StrollersIn "Under the Rose" Mr. Isham has written a most entertaining book—the plot is unique; the style is graceful and clever; the whole story is pervaded by a spirit of sunshine and good humor, and the ending is a happy one. Mr. Christy's pictures mark a distinct step forward in illustrative art. There is only one way, and it is an entertaining one, to find out what is "Under the Rose"—read it."No one will take up 'Under the Rose' and lay it down before completion; many will even return to it for a repeated reading"—Book News."Mr. Isham tells all of his fanciful, romantic tale delightfully. The reader who loves romance, intrigue and adventure, love-seasoned, will find it here."—The Lamp.With Illustrations in Six Colors byHoward Chandler Christy12mo, Cloth, Price, $1.50The Bobbs-Merrill Company,Indianapolis
DIFFERENT AND DELIGHTFUL
UNDER THEROSE
A Story of the Loves of a Duke and a Jester
By FREDERIC S. ISHAM
Author of The Strollers
In "Under the Rose" Mr. Isham has written a most entertaining book—the plot is unique; the style is graceful and clever; the whole story is pervaded by a spirit of sunshine and good humor, and the ending is a happy one. Mr. Christy's pictures mark a distinct step forward in illustrative art. There is only one way, and it is an entertaining one, to find out what is "Under the Rose"—read it."No one will take up 'Under the Rose' and lay it down before completion; many will even return to it for a repeated reading"—Book News."Mr. Isham tells all of his fanciful, romantic tale delightfully. The reader who loves romance, intrigue and adventure, love-seasoned, will find it here."—The Lamp.
In "Under the Rose" Mr. Isham has written a most entertaining book—the plot is unique; the style is graceful and clever; the whole story is pervaded by a spirit of sunshine and good humor, and the ending is a happy one. Mr. Christy's pictures mark a distinct step forward in illustrative art. There is only one way, and it is an entertaining one, to find out what is "Under the Rose"—read it.
"No one will take up 'Under the Rose' and lay it down before completion; many will even return to it for a repeated reading"—Book News.
"Mr. Isham tells all of his fanciful, romantic tale delightfully. The reader who loves romance, intrigue and adventure, love-seasoned, will find it here."—The Lamp.
With Illustrations in Six Colors by
Howard Chandler Christy
12mo, Cloth, Price, $1.50
The Bobbs-Merrill Company,Indianapolis
A NEW NOTE IN FICTIONTHE STROLLERSBy FREDERIC S. ISHAM"The Strollers" is a novel of much merit.The scenes are laid in that picturesque and interesting period of American life--the last of the stage coach days--the days of the strolling player.The author, Frederic S. Isham, gives a delightful and accurate account of a troop of players making a circuit in the wilderness from New York to New Orleans, travelling by stage, carrying one wagon load of scenery, playing in town halls, taverns, barns or whatnot."The Strollers" is a new note in fiction.With eight illustrations by Harrison Fisher12mo. Price, $1.50The Bobbs-Merrill Company,Indianapolis
A NEW NOTE IN FICTION
THE STROLLERS
By FREDERIC S. ISHAM
"The Strollers" is a novel of much merit.The scenes are laid in that picturesque and interesting period of American life--the last of the stage coach days--the days of the strolling player.The author, Frederic S. Isham, gives a delightful and accurate account of a troop of players making a circuit in the wilderness from New York to New Orleans, travelling by stage, carrying one wagon load of scenery, playing in town halls, taverns, barns or whatnot."The Strollers" is a new note in fiction.
"The Strollers" is a novel of much merit.
The scenes are laid in that picturesque and interesting period of American life--the last of the stage coach days--the days of the strolling player.
The author, Frederic S. Isham, gives a delightful and accurate account of a troop of players making a circuit in the wilderness from New York to New Orleans, travelling by stage, carrying one wagon load of scenery, playing in town halls, taverns, barns or whatnot.
"The Strollers" is a new note in fiction.
With eight illustrations by Harrison Fisher
12mo. Price, $1.50
The Bobbs-Merrill Company,Indianapolis