The night was sultry and dismal.
Dense black clouds rolled over the Roman Campagna, burning blue in the flashes of jagged lightnings and the low boom of distant thunder reverberated ominously among the hills and valleys of Rome, when three men, cloaked and wearing black velvet masks, skirted the huge mediæval wall with which Pope Leo IV had girdled the gardens of the Vatican and, passing along the fortified rampart which surrounded the Vatican Hill, plunged into the trackless midnight gloom of deep, branch-shadowed thickets.
Not a word was spoken between them. Silently they followed their leader, whose tall, dark form was revealed to them only among the dense network of trees and the fantastic shapes of the underbrush, when a flash of white lightning flamed across the limitless depths of the midnight horizon.
Not a sound broke the stillness, save the menacing growl of the thunder, the intermittent soughing of the wind among the branches, or the occasional drip-drip of dewy moisture trickling tearfully from the leaves, mingling with the dreamy, gurgling sound of the fountains, concealed among bosquets of orange and almond trees.
From time to time, as they proceeded upon their nocturnal errand, the sounds of their footsteps being swallowed up by the soft carpet of moss, they caught fleet glimpses of marble statues, gleaming white, like ghosts, from among the tall dark cypresses, or the shimmering surface of a marble-cinctured lake, mirrored in the sheen of the lightnings.
The grove they traversed assumed by degrees the character of a tropical forest. Untrodden by human feet, it seemed as though nature, grown tired of the iridescent floral beauty of the environing gardens, had, in a sudden malevolent mood, torn and blurred the fair green frondage and twisted every bud awry, till the awkward,misshapenlimbs resembled the contorted branches of wind-blown trees. Great jagged leaves covered with prickles and stained with blotches as of spilt poison, thick brown stems, glistening with slimy moisture and coiled up like the sleeping bodies of snakes, masses of blue and purple fungi, and blossoms seemingly of the orchid-species, some like fleshly tongues, others like the waxen yellow fingers of a dead hand, protruded spectrally through the matted foliage, while all manner of strange overpowering odors increased the swooning oppressiveness of the sultry, languorous air.
Arrived at a clearing they paused.
In the distance the Basilica of Constantine was sunk in deep repose. All about them was the pagan world. Goat-footed Pan seemed to peer through the interstices of the branches. The fountains crooned in their marble basins. Centaurs and Bacchantes disported themselves among the flowering shrubs and, dark against the darker background of the night, the vast ramparts of Leo IV seemed to shut out light and life together.
The Prefect of the Camera turned to his companions, after peering cautiously into the thickets.
"We must wait for the guards," he said in a whisper. "It were perilous to proceed farther without them."
Tristan's hand tightened upon his sword-hilt. There were tears in his eyes when he thought of Hellayne and all that was at stake, the overthrow of the enemies of Christ. He had, in a manner, conquered the terrible fear that had palsied heart and soul as they had started out after nightfall. Now, taking his position as he found it, since he felt that his fate was ruled by some unseen force which he might not resist, he was upheld by a staunch resolution to do his part in the work assigned to him and thereby to merit forgiveness and absolution.
Notwithstanding the enforced calm that filled his soul, there were moments when, assailed by a terrible dread, lest he might be too late to prevent the unspeakable crime, his energies were almost paralyzed. Silent as a ghost he had traversed the grove by the side of his equally silent companions, more intent upon his quarry than the patient, velvet-footed puma that follows in the high branches of the trees the unsuspecting traveller below.
Was it his imagination, was it the beating of his own heart in the silence that preceded the breaking of the storm; or did he indeed hear the dull throbbing of the drums that heralded the approach of the crimson banners of Satan?
The wind increased with every moment. The thunder growled ever nearer. The heavens were one sheet of flame. The trees began to bend their tops to the voice of the hurricane. The air was hot as if blown from the depths of the desert. As the uproar of the elements increased, strange sounds seemed to mingle with the voices of the storm. Black shadows as of dancing witches darkened the clearing, spread and wheeled, interlaced and disentwined. In endless thousands they seemed to fly, like the withered and perishing leaves of autumn.
Involuntarily Tristan grasped the arm of the Monk of Cluny.
"Are these real shapes—or do my eyes play me false?" he faltered, an expression of terror on his countenance, such as no consideration of earthly danger could have evoked.
"To-night, my son, we are invincible," replied the monk. "Trust in the Crucified Christ!"
Across the plaisaunce, washed white by the sheen of the lightnings, there was a stir as of an approaching forest. Tristan watched as in the throes of a dream.
A few moments later the little band was joined by the newcomers, masked, garbed in sombre black and heavily armed, three-score Spaniards, trusted above their companions for their loyalty and allegiance to Holy Church. Among them Tristan recognized the Cardinal-Archbishop of Ravenna, the Bishop of Orvieto and the Prefect of Rome.
Odo of Cluny noted Tristan's shrinking at the sight of the two men who had been present when the terrible accusation had been hurled against him on that fatal morning—the accusation in the Lateran, which had launched him in the dungeons of Castel San Angelo.
He comforted the trembling youth.
"They know now that the charge was false," he said. "To-night we shall conquer. We shall set our foot upon Satan's neck."
Withdrawing under the shelter of the trees, regardless of the increasing fury of the storm, the leaders held whispered consultation.
Before them, set in the massive wall, appeared a door not more than five feet high, studded with large nails.
The Prefect of Rome bent forward and inserted a gleaming piece of steel in the keyhole. After a wrench or two, which convinced the onlookers that the door had been long in disuse, it swung inward with a groan. The Prefect, with a muttered imprecation, beckoned his followers to enter, and when they were assembled in what appeared to be a courtyard, he took pains to close the door himself, to avoid the least noise that might reach the ear of those within the enclosure.
At the far end of this courtyard a shadowy pavilion arose, culled from the Stygian gloom by the sheen of the lightnings. It seemed to have been erected in remote antiquity. A circular structure of considerable extent, its ruinous exterior revealed traces of Etruscan architecture. No one dared set foot in it, for it was rumored to be the abode of evil spirits. Its interior was reported to be a network of intricate galleries, leading into subterranean chambers, secret and secluded places into which human foot never strayed, for, not unlike the catacombs, it was well-nigh impossible to find the exit from its labyrinthine passages without the saving thread of Ariadné.
At a signal from the Prefect of the Camera all stopped. Heavy drops of rain were falling. The hurricane increased in fury.
It was a weird scene and one the memory of which lingered long after that eventful night with Tristan.
Black cypresses and holm-oaks formed a dense wall around the pavilion on two sides. In the distance the white limbs of some pagan statues could be seen gleaming through the dark foliage. And, as from a subterranean cavern, a distant droning chant struck the ear now and then with fateful import.
Now the Prefect of Rome threw off his cloak. The others did likewise. Their masks they retained.
"There is a secret entrance, unknown even to these spawns of hell, behind the pavilion," he addressed his companions in a subdued tone, hardly audible in the shrieking of the storm. "It is concealed among tall weeds and has long been in disuse. The door is almost invisible and they think themselves safe in the performance of their iniquities below."
"How can we reach this pit of hell?" Tristan, quivering with ill-repressed excitement interposed at this juncture. He could hardly restrain himself. On every moment hung the life of the being dearer to him than all the world, and he chafed under the restraint like a restive steed. If they should be too late, even now!
But the Prefect retained his calm demeanor knowing what was at stake. It was not enough to locate the chapel of Satan. Those participating in the unholy rites must not be given the chance to escape. They must be taken, dead or alive, to the last man.
"We have with us one who is familiar with every nook in the city of Rome," the Prefect turned to the Cardinal-Archbishop of Ravenna. "Long have we suspected that all is not well in the deserted pavilion. But though we watched by day and by night nothing seemed to reward our efforts, until one stormy night a dreadful shape with the face of a devil came forth, and the sight so paralyzed those who watched from afar that they fled in dismay, believing it was the Evil One in person who had come forth from the bowels of the earth. From yonder door a dark corridor leads to a shaft whence it winds in a slight incline into the devil's chapel below. The latter is so situated that we can watch these outcasts at their devotions, unseen, our presence unguessed. This way! Let silence be the password. Keep in touch with each other, for the darkness is as that of the grave."
A flash of lightning that seemed to rend the very heavens enveloped them for a moment in its sulphureous glare, followed by a crash of thunder that shook the very earth. The hurricane shrieked, and the rain came down in torrents.
They had advanced to the very edge of the underbrush, stumbling over the heads and torsos of broken statues that lay among parasitic herbage. Monstrous decaying leaves curled upward, leprous in the lightnings. A poison mist seemed to hover over this lonely and deserted pleasure-house of ancient Pelasgian days.
Skirting the haunted pavilion, unmindful of the onslaught of the elements, they took a path so narrow that they could but advance in single file. This path had been cut and beaten by the Prefect's guards, for the weeds and underbrush luxuriated, until they mounted some ten feet against the walls of the pavilion.
They had now reached the back wall and proceeded in utter darkness broken only by the flashes of lightning. They passed through a half-ruined archway and at last came to a halt, prompted by those in front, whose progress had been stopped by, what the others guessed to be, the door. They had to work warily, to keep it from falling inward. At last the movement continued and they entered the night-wrapt corridor.
Tristan had taken his station directly behind the Prefect of Rome. The ecclesiastics, for their own protection, had been assigned the rear.
By the sheen of lightnings a pile of brushwood was revealed to the sight, which the Prefect, in a low tone, ordered to be cleared away, whereupon a circular opening appeared, like the entrance of a well.
The Prefect summoned the leaders around him.
For a moment they stood in silence and listened.
Between the peals of the thunder which rolled in terrifying echoes over the Seven Hills, the trained ear could distinguish a strange, droning sound that seemed to come from the bowels of the earth.
"Even now the Black Mass is commencing," he turned to Tristan. "We are but just in time."
After a pause he continued:
"We must proceed in darkness. The faintest glimmer might betray our presence. I shall lead the way. Let each follow warily. Let each be in touch with the other. Let all stop when I stop. We shall arrive in a circular gallery, whence we may all witness the abomination below. From this gallery several flights of winding stairs lead into the devil's chapel. Let us descend in silence. When you hear the signal—down the quick descent and—upon them!"
One by one they disappeared in the dark aperture. Their feet touched ground while they still supported themselves on their arms. They found themselves in a subterranean chamber, in impenetrable darkness, whose hot, damp murk almost suffocated the intruders.
Slowly, with infinite caution, in infinite silence, they proceeded. Every man stretched his hand before him to touch a companion.
The passage began to slant, yet the incline was gradual. Their feet touched soft earth which swallowed the sound of their steps. There was neither echo nor vibration, only murky silence and the night of the grave.
A low, droning sound, infinitely remote, a sound not unlike that of swarming bees heard at a great distance, was now wafted to their ears.
A shudder ran through that long chain of living men, who were carrying the Cross into the very abyss of Hell.
For they knew they were listening to the infernal choir, they were approaching the hidden chapel of Satan. The chant began to swell. Still they continued upon their descent.
The imprisoned air became hotter and murkier, almost suffocating in its miasmatic waves that assailed the senses and seemed to weigh like lead upon the brain.
Now the tunnel turned sharply at right angles and after proceeding some twenty or thirty paces in Stygian darkness, a faint crimson glow began suddenly to drive the nocturnal gloom before it, and they emerged in a gallery, terminating in a number of dark archways, from which narrow winding stairs led into the hall below. Small round apertures, resembling port-holes, permitted a glimpse into the chapel of Satan, and a weird, droning chant was rising rhythmically from the night-wrapt depths of the pavilion.
Following the example of the leader, they stole on tiptoe to the unglazed port-holes and gazed below, and eager, yet trembling, with the anticipation of the dread mysteries they were about to witness.
At first they could not see anything distinctly, owing to the crimson mist that seemed to come rolling into the chapel as from some furnace and their eyes, after having been long in the darkness, refused to focus themselves. But, by degrees, the scene became more distinct.
In the circular chapel below dim figures, robed in crimson, moved to and fro, bearing aloft perfumed cressets on metal poles, and in its flickering light an altar became visible, hung with crimson, the summit of which was lost in the gloom overhead. Here and there indistinct shapes were stretched in hideous contortions on the pavement, and as others drew nigh, these rose and, throwing back their heads, made the vault re-echo with deep-chested roaring.
Suddenly the metal bound gates of a low arched doorway, faintly discernible in the uncertain light, seemed to be unclosing with a slow and majestic movement, letting loose a flood of light in which the ghostly faces of the worshippers leapt into sudden clearness, men and women, all seemingly belonging to the highest ranks of society. The crimson garbs of the officiating priests showed like huge stains of blood against the dark-veined marble.
Tristan gazed with the rest, stark with terror. The blood seemed to freeze in his veins as his eyes swept the circular vault and rested at the shrine's farther end, where branching candlesticks flanked each the foot of two short flights of stairs that led up to the summit of the great altar, garnished at the corner with hideous masks, and sending up from time to time eddies of smoke, through the reek of which some two score of men watched the ceremony from above.
Dim shapes passed to and fro. The droning chant continued. At length a shapeless form evolved itself from the crimson mist, approached the altar and cast something upon it. Instantly a blaze of light flooded the shrine, and in its radiance a weazened, bat-like creature was revealed, garbed in the fantastic imitation of a priest's robes.
Approaching the infernal altar, upon which lay obscene symbols of horror, he mounted the steps and his figure melted into the gloom.
With the cold sweat streaming from his brow, with a shudder that almost turned him dizzy, Tristan recognized Bessarion. The High Priest of Satan sat upon the Devil's altar. There was stir and movement in the chapel. Then a deep silence supervened.
Petrifaction fell upon the assembly. All voices were hushed, all movement arrested. From the black throne, surrounded by terror, where sat the great Unknown, came a dull hoarse roar, like the roar of an earthquake.
The words were unintelligible to the champions of the Cross. They were answered by the Sorcerer's Confession, the hideous, terrible contortion of the Credo, and then Tristan's ears were assailed by the sounds he had heard on that fatal night, ere he lost consciousness, and again in the Catacombs of St. Calixtus, sounds meaningless in themselves, but fraught with terrible import to him now!
"Emen Hetan! Emen Hetan! Palu! Baalberi! Emen Hetan!"—
Pandemonium broke loose.
"Agora! Agora! Patrisa! Agora!"
There was screeching of pipes, made of dead men's bones. A drum stretched with the skin of the hanged was beaten with the tail of a wolf. Like leaves in a howling storm the fantastic red robed forms whirled about, from left to right, from right to left. And in their midst, immobile and terrible, sat the Hircus Nocturnus, enthroned upon the shrine.
When at last they stopped, panting, exhausted, the same voice, deafening as an earthquake, roared:
"Bring hither the bride—the stainless dove!"
A chorus of hideous laughter, a swelling, bleating cacophony of execration, so furious and real that it froze the listeners' blood, answered the summons.
Then, from an arch in the apse of the infernal chapel, came four chanting figures, hideously masked and draped in crimson.
With slow, measured steps they approached. The arch was black again. Deep silence supervened.
Now into the centre came two figures.
One was that of a man robed in doublet and hose of flaming scarlet. The figure he supported was that of a woman, though she seemed a corpse returned to earth.
A long white robe covered her from head to toe, like the winding sheet of death. Her eyes were bound with a white cloth. She seemed unable to walk, and was being urged forward, step by step, by the scarlet man at her side.
Again pandemonium reigned, heightened by the crashing peals of the thunder that rolled in the heavens overhead.
"Emen Hetan! Emen Hetan! Palu! Baalberi! Emen Hetan!"
The bleating of goats, the shrieks of the tortured damned, the howling of devils in the nethermost pit of Hell, delirious laughter, gibes and execrations mingled in a deafening chorus, which was followed by a dead silence, as anew the voice of the Unseen roared through the vault:
"Bring hither the bride, the stainless dove!"
There was a tramp of mailed feet.
Like a human whirlwind it came roaring down the winding stairs, through the vomitories into the vault. The rattling of weapons, shouts of rage, horror and dismay mingled, resounding from the vaulted roof, beaten back from the marble walls.
With drawn sword Tristan, well in advance of his companions, leaped into the chapel of Satan. When the identity of the staggering white form beside the scarlet man had been revealed to him, no power in heaven or earth could have restrained him. Without awaiting the signal he bounded with a choking outcry down the shaft.
But, when he reached the floor of the chapel, he recoiled as if the Evil One had arisen from the floor before him, barring his advance.
Before him stood Theodora.
She wore a scarlet robe, fastened at the throat with a clasp of rubies, representing the heads of serpents. Her wonderful white arms were bare, her hands were clenched as if she were about to fly at the throat of a hated rival and a preternatural lustre shone in her eyes.
"You!"
Tristan's words died in the utterance as he surveyed her for the space of a moment with a glance so full of horror and disdain that she knew she had lost.
"Yes—it is I," she replied, hardly above a whisper, hot flush and deadly pallor alternating in her beautiful face, terrible in its set calm. "And—though I may not possess you—that other shall not! See!"
Maddened beyond all human endurance at the sight that met his eyes Tristan hurled Theodora aside as she attempted to bar his way, as if she had been a toy. Rushing straight through the press towards the spot, where the scarlet man, his arms still about the drooping form of Hellayne, had stopped in dismay at the sudden inrush of the guards, Tristan pierced the Grand Chamberlain through and through. Almost dragging the woman with him he fell beside the devil's altar. His head struck the flagstones and he lay still.
The Prefect himself dashed up the steps of the ebony shrine and hurled the High Priest of Satan on the flagstones below. Bessarion's neck was broken and, with the squeak of a bat, his black soul went out.
While the guards, giving no quarter, were mowing down all those of the devil's congregation who did not seek salvation in flight or concealment, Tristan caught the swooning form of Hellayne in his arms, calling her name in despairing accents, as he stroked the silken hair back from the white clammy brow. She was breathing, but her eyes were closed.
Then he summoned two men-at-arms to his side, and between them they carried her to the world of light above.
Thethundercloudshad rolled away to eastward.
A rosy glow was creeping over the sky. The air was fresh with the coming of dawn. Softly they laid Hellayne by the side of a marble fountain and splashed the cooling drops upon her pale face. After a time she opened her eyes.
The first object they encountered was Tristan who was bending over her, fear and anxiety in his face.
Her colorless lips parted in a whisper, as her arms encircled his neck.
"You are with me!" she said, and the transparent lids drooped again.
Those who had not been slain of the congregation of Hell had been bound in chains. Among the dead was Theodora. The contents of a phial she carried on her person had done its work instantaneously.
Suddenly alarums resounded from the region of Castel San Angelo. There was a great stir and buzz, as of an awakened bee hive. There were shouts at the Flaminian gate, the martial tread of mailed feet and, as the sun's first ray kissed the golden Archangel on the summit of the Flavian Emperor's mausoleum, a horseman, followed by a glittering retinue, dashed up the path, dismounted and raised his visor.
Before the astounded assembly stood Alberic, the Senator of Rome.
Just then they brought the body of Theodora from the subterranean chapel and laid it silently on the greensward, beside that of Basil, the Grand Chamberlain.
The Cardinal-Archbishop of Ravenna was the first to speak.
"My lord, we hardly trust our eyes. All Rome is mourning you for dead."
Alberic turned to the speaker.
"With the aid of the saint I have prevailed against the foulest treason ever committed by a subject against his trusting lord. The bribed hosts of Hassan Abdullah, which were to sack Rome, are scattered in flight. The attempt upon my own life has been prevented by a miracle from Heaven. But—what of these dead?"
Odo of Cluny approached the Senator of Rome.
"The awful horror which has gripped the city is passed. Christ rules once more and Satan is vanquished. This is a matter for your private ear, my lord."
Odo pointed to the kneeling form of Tristan, who was supporting Hellayne in his arms, trying to soothe her troubled spirit, to dispel the memory of the black horrors which held her trembling soul in thrall.
Approaching Tristan, Alberic laid his hand upon his head.
"We knew where to trust, and we shall know how to reward! My lords and prelates of the Church! Matters of grave import await you. We meet again in the Emperor's Tomb."
Beckoning to his retinue, Alberic remounted his steed, as company upon company of men-at-arms filed past—a host, such as the city of Rome had not beheld in decades, with drums and trumpets, pennants and banderols, long lines of glittering spears, gorgeous surcoats, and splendid suits of mail.
The forces of the Holy Roman Empire were passing into the Eternal City.
At their head the Senator of Rome was returning into his own.
At last they were alone, Tristan and Hellayne.
His companions had departed. With them they had taken their dead.
Hellayne opened her eyes. They were sombre, yet at peace.
"Tristan!"
He bent over her.
"My own Hellayne!"
"It is beautiful to be loved," she whispered. "I have never been loved before."
"You shall be," he replied, "now and forever, before God and the world!"
The old shadow came again into her eyes.
"What of the Lord Roger?"
She read the answer in his silence.
A tear trickled from the violet pools of her eyes.
Then she raised herself in his arms.
"I thought I should go mad," she crooned. "But I knew you would come. And you are here—here—with me,—Tristan."
He took her hands in his, his soul in his eyes.
The sun had risen higher through the gold bars of the east, dispelling the grey chill of dawn.
She nestled closer to him.
"Take me back to Avalon, to my rose garden," she crooned. "Life is before us—yonder—where first we loved."
He took her in his arms and kissed her eyes and the small sweet mouth.
A lark began to sing in the silence.
THE END
WHAT ALLAH WILLSBy Irwin L. GordonAuthor of "The Log of The Ark"Illustrated, net, $1.35; carriage paid, $1.50
WHAT ALLAH WILLSBy Irwin L. Gordon
Take Morocco for a background—that quaint and mysterious land of mosques and minarets, where themuezzinstill calls to prayer at sundown the faithful.
Imagine a story written with power and intensity and the thrill of adventure in the midst of fanatical Moslems. Add to this a wealthy young medical student, a red-blooded American, who gives up his life to helping the lepers of Arzilla, and the presence of a beautiful American girl who, despite her love for the hero, is induced to take up the Mohammedan faith, and you have some idea of what this remarkable story presents.
WHAT ALLAH WILLS is a big story of love and adventure. Mr. Gordon is the author of two notable non-fiction successes, but he scores heavily in this, his first work of fiction.
UNDER THE WITCHES' MOONBy Nathan GallizierAuthor of "The Sorceress of Rome," "The Court ofLucifer," "The Hill of Venus," etc.Illustrated by The Kinneys, cloth 12mo, net, $1.50;carriage paid, $1.65
UNDER THE WITCHES' MOONBy Nathan Gallizier
This romantic tale of tenth-century Rome concerns itself with the fortunes and adventures of Tristan of Avalon while in the Eternal City on a pilgrimage to do penance for his love of Hellayne, the wife of his liege lord, Count Roger de Laval.
Tristan's meeting with the Queen Courtesan of the Aventine; her infatuation for the pilgrim; Tristan's rounds of obediences, cut short by his appointment as Captain of Sant' Angelo by Alberic, Senator of Rome; the intrigues of Basil, the Grand Chamberlain, who aspires to the dominion of Rome and the love of Theodora; the trials of Hellayne, who alternately falls into the power of Basil and Theodora; the scene between the Grand Chamberlain and Bessarion in the ruins of the Coliseum; the great feud between Roxana and Theodora and the final overthrow of the latter's regime constitute some of the dramatic episodes of the romance.
"This new book adds greater weight to the claim that Mr. Gallizier is the greatest writer of historical novels in America today."—Cincinnati Times-Star.
"In many respects we consider Mr. Gallizier the most versatile and interesting writer of the day."—Saxby's Magazine.
A third CHEERFUL BOOKTrade————MarkSYLVIA ARDEN DECIDESBy Margaret R. PiperA Sequel to "Sylvia's Experiment: The Cheerful Book"Trade————Markand "Sylvia of the Hill Top"Illustrated, decorative jacket, net, $1.35; carriage paid,$1.50
SYLVIA ARDEN DECIDESBy Margaret R. Piper
In the original CHEERFUL BOOK, with its rippling play of incident, Sylvia proved herself a bringer of tidings of great joy to many people. In the second book devoted to her adventures, she was a charming heroine—urbane, resourceful and vivacious—with an added shade of picturesqueness due to her environment. In this third story Sylvia is a little older grown, deep in the problem of just-out-of-college adjustment to the conditions of the "wide, wide world," and in the process of learning, as she puts it, "to live as deep and quick as I can." The scene of the new story is laid partly at Arden Hall and partly in New York and, in her sincere effort to find herself, Sylvia finds love in real fairy tale fashion.
"There is a world of human nature, and neighborhood contentment and quaint, quiet humor in Margaret R. Piper's books of good cheer. Her tales are well proportioned and subtly strong in their literary aspects and quality."—North American, Philadelphia.
A PLACE IN THE SUNBy Mrs. Henry BackusAuthor of "The Career of Dr. Weaver," "The Roseof Roses," etc.12mo, cloth, illustrated by Wm. Van Dresser, net, $1.35;carriage paid, $1.50
A PLACE IN THE SUNBy Mrs. Henry Backus
Gunda Karoli is a very much alive young person with a zest for life and looking-forward philosophy which helps her through every trial. She is sustained in her struggles against the disadvantage of her birth by a burning faith in the great American ideal—that here in the United States every one has a chance to win for himself a place in the sun.
Gunda takes for her gospel the Declaration of Independence, only to find that, although this democratic doctrine is embodied in the constitution of the country, it does not manifest itself outwardly in its social life. Nevertheless, she succeeds in mounting step by step in the social scale, from the time she first appears at Skyland on the Knobs as a near-governess, to her brief season in the metropolis as a danseuse.
How she wins the interest of Justin Arnold, the fastidious descendant of a fine old family, and brings into his self-centered existence a new life and fresh charm, provides a double interest to the plot.
VIRGINIA OF ELK CREEKVALLEYBy Mary Ellen Chase12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by R. FarringtonElwell, net, $1.35; carriage paid, $1.50
VIRGINIA OF ELK CREEKVALLEYBy Mary Ellen Chase
A sequel to last year's success, THE GIRL FROM THE BIG HORN COUNTRY (sixth printing). This new story is more western in flavor than the first book—since practically all of the action occurs back in the Big Horn country, at Virginia's home, to which she invites her eastern friends for a summer vacation. The vacation in the West proves "the best ever" for the Easterners, and in recounting their pleasures they tell of the hundreds of miles of horseback riding, how they climbed mountains, trapped a bear, shot gophers, fished, camped, homesteaded, and of the delightful hospitality of Virginia and her friends.
"The story is full of life and movement and presents a variety of interesting characters."—St. Paul Despatch.
"This is most gladsome reading to all who love healthfulness of mind, heart and body."—Boston Ideas.
Selections fromThe Page Company'sList of FictionWORKS OFELEANOR H. PORTER
Selections fromThe Page Company'sList of Fiction
WORKS OFELEANOR H. PORTER
POLLYANNA: The GLAD Book (360,000)Trade Mark Trade——Mark
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Net, $1.35;carriage paid, $1.50
Mr. Leigh Mitchell Hodges, The Optimist, in an editorial for thePhiladelphia North American, says: "And when, after Pollyanna has gone away, you get her letter saying she is going to take 'eight steps' to-morrow—well, I don't know just what you may do, but I know of one person who buried his face in his hands and shook with the gladdest sort of sadness and got down on his knees and thanked the Giver of all gladness for Pollyanna."
POLLYANNA GROWS UP: The Second GLAD BookTrade Mark (180,000) Trade——Mark
Cloth decorative, illustrated by H. Weston Taylor.
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When the story ofPollyannatold in TheGladBook was ended a great cry of regret for the vanishing "Glad Girl" went up all over the country—and other countries, too. NowPollyannaappears again, just as sweet and joyous-hearted, more grown up and more lovable.
"Take away frowns! Put down the worries! Stop fidgeting and disagreeing and grumbling! Cheer up, everybody!Pollyannahas come back!"—Christian Herald.
The GLAD Book Calendar
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THE POLLYANNA CALENDARTrade Mark
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Decorated and printed in colors.Net, $1.50;carriage paid, $1.65
"There is a message of cheer on every page, and the calendar is beautifully illustrated."—Kansas City Star.
MISS BILLY (18th printing)
Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by G. Tyng . .Net, $1.35;carriage paid, $1.50
Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by G. Tyng . .Net, $1.35;carriage paid, $1.50
"There is something altogether fascinating about 'Miss Billy,' some inexplicable feminine characteristic that seems to demand the individual attention of the reader from the moment we open the book until we reluctantly turn the last page."—Boston Transcript.
MISS BILLY'S DECISION (11th printing)
Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by Henry W. Moore.
Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by Henry W. Moore.
Net, $1.35;carriage paid, $1.50
"The story is written in bright, clever style and has plenty of action and humor. Miss Billy is nice to know and so are her friends."—New Haven Times Leader.
MISS BILLY—MARRIED (8th printing)
Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by W. Haskell Coffin.
Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by W. Haskell Coffin.
Net, $1.35;carriage paid, $1.50
"Although Pollyanna is the only copyrighted glad girl, Miss Billy is just as glad as the younger figure and radiates just as much gladness. She disseminates joy so naturally that we wonder why all girls are not like her."—Boston Transcript.
SIX STAR RANCH (19th Printing)
Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated by R. Farrington Elwell.
Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated by R. Farrington Elwell.
Net, $1.35;carriage paid, $1.50
"'Six Star Ranch' bears all the charm of the author's genius and is about a little girl down in Texas who practices the 'Pollyanna Philosophy' with irresistible success. The book is one of the kindliest things, if not the best, that the author of the Pollyanna books has done. It is a welcome addition to the fast-growing family ofGladBooks."—Howard Russell Bangs in the Boston Post.
CROSS CURRENTS
Cloth decorative, illustrated.Net, $1.00;carriage paid, $1.15
Cloth decorative, illustrated.Net, $1.00;carriage paid, $1.15
"To one who enjoys a story of life as it is to-day, with its sorrows as well as its triumphs, this volume is sure to appeal."—Book News Monthly.
THE TURN OF THE TIDE
Cloth decorative, illustrated.Net, $1.25;carriage paid, $1.40
Cloth decorative, illustrated.Net, $1.25;carriage paid, $1.40
"A very beautiful book showing the influence that went to the developing of the life of a dear little girl into a true and good woman."—Herald and Presbyter, Cincinnati, Ohio.
WORKS OFL. M. MONTGOMERY
THE FOUR ANNE BOOKS
ANNE OF GREEN GABLES (40th printing)
Cloth decorative, illustrated by M. A. and W. A. J. Claus.
Cloth decorative, illustrated by M. A. and W. A. J. Claus.
Net, $1.35;carriage paid, $1.50
"In 'Anne of Green Gables' you will find the dearest and most moving and delightful child since the immortal Alice."—Mark Twain in a letter to Francis Wilson.
ANNE OF AVONLEA (24th printing)
Cloth decorative, illustrated by George Gibbs.
Cloth decorative, illustrated by George Gibbs.
Net, $1.35;carriage paid, $1.50
"A book to lift the spirit and send the pessimist into bankruptcy!"—Meredith Nicholson.
CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA (6th printing)
Cloth decorative, illustrated by George Gibbs.
Cloth decorative, illustrated by George Gibbs.
Net, $1.35;carriage paid, $1.50
"A story of decidedly unusual conception and interest."—Baltimore Sun.
ANNE OF THE ISLAND (10th printing)
Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by H. Weston Taylor.
Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by H. Weston Taylor.
Net, $1.35;carriage paid, $1.50
"It has been well worth while to watch the growing up of Anne, and the privilege of being on intimate terms with her throughout the process has been properly valued."—New York Herald.
THE STORY GIRL (9th printing)
Cloth decorative, illustrated by George Gibbs.
Cloth decorative, illustrated by George Gibbs.
Net, $1.35;carriage paid, $1.50
"A book that holds one's interest and keeps a kindly smile upon one's lips and in one's heart."—Chicago Inter-Ocean.
KILMENY OF THE ORCHARD (10th printing)
Cloth decorative, illustrated by George Gibbs.
Cloth decorative, illustrated by George Gibbs.
Net, $1.35;carriage paid, $1.50
"A story born in the heart of Arcadia and brimful of the sweet life of the primitive environment."—Boston Herald.
THE GOLDEN ROAD (5th printing)
Cloth decorative, illustrated by George Gibbs.
Cloth decorative, illustrated by George Gibbs.
Net, $1.35;carriage paid, $1.50
"It is a simple, tender tale, touched to higher notes, now and then, by delicate hints of romance, tragedy and pathos."—Chicago Record Herald.
NOVELS BYMRS. HENRY BACKUS
THE CAREER OF DOCTOR WEAVER
Cloth decorative, illustrated by William Van Dresser.
Cloth decorative, illustrated by William Van Dresser.
Net, $1.35;carriage paid, $1.50
"High craftsmanship is the leading characteristic of this novel, which, like all good novels, is a love story abounding in real palpitant human interest. The most startling feature of the story is the way its author has torn aside the curtain and revealed certain phases of the relation between the medical profession and society."—Dr. Charles Reed in the Lancet Clinic.
THE ROSE OF ROSES
Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color.
Net, $1.35;carriage paid, $1.50
The author has achieved a thing unusual in developing a love story which adheres to conventions under unconventional circumstances.
"Mrs. Backus' novel is distinguished in the first place for its workmanship."—Buffalo Evening News.
NOVELS BYMARGARET R. PIPER