Chapter VIII

Of my Surprising Deliverance from Death, my last Meeting with

Anthony Dacre, and of certain Notable Passages ’twixt Mistress

Alison and Myself.

I.

The place in which they installed me to wait for my end was a

little cottage some fifty yards away from the farmhouse, where

Fairfax had set up his quarters, and stood in an angle of the

fields that lie ’twixt Skinner Lane and the hamlet of Tanshelf. It

afforded but the most indifferent accommodation, there being naught

in the way of furniture but a chair or two, a pallet bed in one

corner and a deal table, but in my then condition these things were

more than sufficient for my wants, and I made no complaint of them.

Nay, when Merciful Wiggleskirk offered me some apology for the poor

quarters he had brought me to I checked him, and pointed out that

to a man who has but some sixteen hours to live a cottage is as

fine as a palace.

“Why, sure,” says he, “death is the greatest leveller--but is there

naught that we can do for your honour? Your honour,” he says,

giving me a sly look, “is such a generous rewarder----”

“Friend,” says I, “I verily believe that I have not even a

penny-piece upon me. As for reward then----”

“I meant you to understand,” says he, “that I had already received

my reward, and was minded to do still more to deserve what you have

already bestowed upon me. So if there is aught that you lack----”

“Faith,” says I, “thou art a good fellow. Why, now I come to think

on’t, I should be pleased to have pen, ink, and paper, so that I

may spend an hour or two in writing some necessary matters. ’Twill

help me to kill the time of waiting,” I says.

“You shall have what you wish, Master Coope,” says he, and he went

forth to his fellow at the door and despatched him for the things

I needed. “I shall be on guard with you alone for the rest of the

time,” says he, returning to my side. “A lame man can make little

shift to escape, and we need all our men in the works. There is to

be a great assault made upon the Castle to-night.”

“Ah!” says I, “under other circumstances I could like to ha’ joined

in it; but to tell the truth, good fellow, my foot gives me so much

pain as to put the thoughts of everything out o’ my mind. Faith!”

says I, with a grim laughter filling me at the very humour of it,

“I believe I’m more concerned about the pain o’ this plaguey foot

than that I am to be shot i’ the morning.”

“Why, master,” says he, looking out of the window, “let’s hope

you’ll shortly find some relief, for here’s Sir Thomas’s chirurgeon

coming to see you,” and he opened the door to admit a little,

hatchet-jawed fellow, that eyed me curiously, and demanded to see

my hurt. He took my leg in his lap, and prodded my swollen ankle

here and there with so much abstracted curiosity that I lost my

temper with him.

“Master surgeon,” says I, “you torture me, and I have no mind to be

tortured by anybody. For God’s sake,” I says, “either relieve my

pain, or put my foot down!”

But he looked at me out of his leaden eyes and gave me such a nip

over the ankle bone as made me roar with agony. “Yea,” says he, “I

thought the hurt lay there. However, in three days you shall walk

as well as ever.”

“Thank you for naught,” says I, mightily inclined to take him by

the scruff of the neck and shake him to pieces. “Three days!--why,

man, in three days I shall ha’ seen things that you are never like

to see--I am to be shot at daybreak i’ the morning.”

“Are you so?” says he, with a stare. “Pooh! I waste my valuable

time,” he says, and walks out of the cottage without another

word. And thereat, in spite of the pain and vexation, I burst out

a-laughing, and bade Merciful Wiggleskirk shut the door on the

leech’s back. “Faith, I think he was in the right on’t, after all!”

says I. “What’s the good of mending a man that’s to be broken for

good in a few hours?”

“Why, I don’t know about that, master,” says Merciful. “I conceive

that a man hath a right to be eased of his pain ere his end, so

that he may make a good quittance. And if you’ve no objection,” he

says, “I’ll try my own healing art upon you with an ointment that I

always carry about my person--a very balm of Gilead it is, and hath

worked the marvellousest cures.”

“With all my heart, lad,” says I, “thou canst do aught thou’rt

minded to, short o’ cutting my leg off. I must make shift to stand

straight in the morning.”

He brought out the little box that contained his ointment and

began to rub my leg with it. “I have some acquaintance with the

healing art,” says he. “I was boy to a doctor at one time, and made

experiments on my own account. Besides, my merciful nature obliges

me to exercise my office upon all that are in distress.”

“Thou art a queer fellow,” says I. “But, come, tell me of what

happened at the Manor House this morning. I am anxious to know how

it fared with the serving-folk.”

“Oh,” says he, “at daybreak they hung out a flag and submitted

themselves, and we had free entrance to the house, and were sore

concerned, I promise you, to find naught there but servants.

Captain Stott was for dealing sternly with them at first, but,

what, they had but obeyed orders, and so he let them go their own

ways, and set himself to track you and madam.”

“But we heard cannon discharged,” says I.

“Yea,” says he, rubbing away at my foot, “your ancient house,

Master Coope, is certainly not of such fair proportions as it was.

Stott fired two discharges into it, and you will have some repairs

to see to if you intend--but I forgot,” he says, looking at me with

a curious smile, “that you will not need earthly residence much

longer.”

“So the old house is dismantled?” says I.

“Why, say somewhat disarranged,” says he.

“May the Lord reward whoever did it!” says I, and fell a prey

to bitter thoughts. I had loved that old house, and it gave me

sore pain to think of it, a heap of ruins over my uncle’s grave.

“Alack!” thinks I, sadly. “What evil days have we fallen upon. My

uncle lies dead and buried under his own floor, Alison is in the

hands of Anthony Dacre, and here sit I, waiting to be shot. Was

ever sadder fortune?”

But there Merciful Wiggleskirk gave up his ministrations, and

looked up at me from where he knelt on the floor.

“Now, master,” says he, “how does your hurt feel by this time?”

“Why,” says I, working my ankle about, “I believe it is a deal

easier. That ointment o’ thine must be rare stuff--it has certainly

given me relief.”

“I could have you fit to stand upright without pain by to-morrow,”

says he, proudly. “Ah! this is, as I said, the very balm of

Gilead. I concocted the notion on’t myself, and would not sell it

for a deal o’ money. When I grow weary of this fighting trade,

master, I shall set up as an empiric----”

“It would reward you better,” says I. “And were a fitter employment

for a man of your powers. I’m obliged to you,” I says. “The smart

hath abated marvellously.”

“I will minister to you again ere long,” says he. “You shall walk

out of this cottage straight enough in the morning. But here’s your

pens and paper,” he says, seeing the other trooper returning. “So

now you can fall to your writing, master.”

It was now past noon, and ere long there was brought to us food

and drink, which we consumed together with as much satisfaction as

we could get out of each other’s company. True, the thought of my

condition did sometimes come upon me as I ate, and made my food to

stick in my throat, but as there was no use in repining at my fate,

I strove to be free of regret, and to behave myself like a man. And

the food and drink putting some heart into me, I presently turned

to the table, and began to write, in which occupation I found great

comfort and relief.

Now, I verily believe that troubled as I was at my own fate (for I

was troubled though I strove hard not to be) I was more concerned

on account of Alison. After all that I had done to prevent it, she

had in the end fallen into the hands of Anthony Dacre. I had no

cause to be especially anxious for her safety when I first heard

Anthony’s designs against her, for she and I, on the rare occasions

of our meeting, had never been able to get on together, and she

had treated me with a certain haughty contempt that I secretly

resented. But I had never been able to endure the thought of her

being in Anthony’s power, and after I had lived under the same roof

with her, and seen much of her I felt that I would stay at naught

to save her from him. And there was more than that, for, somehow,

I had come to love her with a rare passion, even when she flouted

and teased me. This made life exceeding bitter for me in what I

believed to be its last hours. There I was, a prisoner in more

ways than one, unable to move hand or foot to succour her whose

image was constantly before me, while she, for aught I knew to

the contrary, was in the hands of a man whom I knew from his own

confession to be a black-hearted villain, and incapable of mercy or

consideration where his own vile inclination was concerned.

There was but one thing that comforted me in this sore pass and

that was the thought of Alison’s own fearlessness. She was one of

those women that are accustomed--faith, there are precious few of

them that I have seen during fifty years of life!--to think and act

for themselves, and I could readily imagine her to be more than a

match for Anthony Dacre, so long as natural wit was the only weapon

employed by both. It might be that she, finding herself in his

hands, would contrive means for her safe progress to her father’s

house and even delude him into procuring them. Thus, I was somewhat

comforted, and yet it was a hateful thought to me that the woman

I loved was in the company of a man whom I heartily despised. It

was not that I had any jealous feeling--though she had teased me

about him as we sat under the bridge, saying that he was a handsome

man, a devoted cavalier, and so forth, which was her woman’s way

of professing what she didn’t believe for very sport--but that I

had so much respect and affection for her that I would have done

aught--aye, and had done so much as to lose my own life by it--to

keep her unsmirched even by the mere company of villainy. But caged

as I was what could I do?--and so I hoped for the best, and sat me

down to write letters to my cousin, having arranged with Merciful

Wiggleskirk that he would use his utmost endeavour to have the

packet delivered.

Now of what I then wrote I have at this time but the least

knowledge, for the packet came into Alison’s hands--though not

after the fashion that I had intended--and she has since taken

the strictest care of it, and values it so much that she will not

permit it to pass out of her keeping even for a moment. However,

what I do remember is that I spent all that afternoon and evening

in writing--with some intervals wherein Merciful Wiggleskirk rubbed

his balm of Gilead into my foot, much to its great benefit--and

that in the end I used all the paper that the trooper had brought

me, and so was obliged to lay down my pen unsatisfied.

It was then close upon midnight, and being sore fatigued, I lay

down on the bed, sleepy enough, in spite of the fate that was but

some seven hours distant. Merciful Wiggleskirk mounted guard over

me, rarely satisfied with the result of his ministrations to my

injury. “Faith!” says I, “I think I shall sleep well,” and I bade

him good-night.

But there was much about to happen, and since I had naught to do

with that which brought it about, I shall here present to you the

account of it that was written down afterwards by Alison herself.

II.

A TRUE NARRATIVE OF THE TRANSACTION BETWEEN ALISON FRENCH AND

ANTHONY DACRE, NOW SET DOWN AFTER A PLAIN FASHION BY THE

FORMER.--A. F.

When Colonel Sands so rudely bade me begone from the camp, and

I saw my cousin Richard led away by the troopers to what I felt

assured must end in his death, I was so sore distrest that for some

moments my wits forsook me and I knew not what to say or do. It

was, I think, at that moment that I first discovered my love for

my cousin, and that, perhaps, had as much to do with my confession

as aught else. They gave him no time to speak with me ere they led

him away, but he turned himself about at the door of the house

into which they were conducting him, and gave me a swift glance,

and when I met his eyes I knew that I loved him with all my heart,

which had never till then been stirred by the thought of any man.

Then he was gone, and I felt that all was over, and that for the

rest of my life I should carry with me the pain of that moment

which was yet mingled with the joy that comes to a woman who

suddenly discovers that she is loved and that she loves in return.

It was Anthony Dacre that woke me out of my reverie. He drew near

and addressed me by name. I know not what sort of countenance

I turned upon him, but he stood back and looked afraid. But on

the instant I grew calm. There was naught but danger of the

worst sort to the man I loved and to myself (and I was now the

dearer to myself because he loved me) in that moment. “This is no

time,” thought I, “for rashness or for ill-temper. I must keep

my wits, and see if I cannot devise something to save Dick from

his fate.” And therewith a thought flashed across my mind. My

wit against all of them--my woman’s wit against Anthony Dacre’s

subtlety and Fairfax’s decree. I had always prided myself on my

strong-mindedness and my common-sense--of what avail were either

if they could not help the man I loved when his need was of the

greatest? Could not?--nay, but they should! I would be strong and

wise: it should not be for lack of endeavour if I did not outwit

them all.

I turned to Anthony Dacre with a gracious manner.

“And so you are to form my escort, cousin?” I said, speaking to him

with a civility which belied the loathing and contempt I kept for

him in my heart.

He looked at me with a great surprise, wondering perhaps what had

brought this change over me.

“I have made some arrangements for you,” he said. “I shall conduct

you to your father’s house with great pleasure. Will it please you

to set out at once?”

“Why,” said I, affecting to treat the matter lightly, “I am

ill-provided with riding-gear. Would it not suit your convenience

to stay our progress at the Manor House so that I can fit myself

out in proper fashion?”

“Anything that you desire, cousin,” said he.

“Then we will set out at once,” I said, and gave him my hand in

order that he might assist me to the horse which stood near. “But I

fear,” I said, when I had disposed myself as well as I could, “that

we shall find the old house a heap of ruins, and my gear may not

easily be come at.”

“It is certainly somewhat damaged,” said he, “and believe me,

cousin, it was much against my will. But I am but a gentleman

volunteer, after all, and things have gone beyond my power. I

wish,” he said, as we rode away, followed by his two men, “that

you had thought better of me, cousin, at the beginning of this sad

matter. It would have saved much bloodshed and trouble.”

Now there was naught that I so much desired at that moment as to

turn in my saddle and look Anthony Dacre straight in the face and

tell him my true thoughts. It would have given me the greatest

relief--but there was so much at stake that I must needs lie to him

and to myself if I would win the game I was playing.

“Cousin,” I answered, as gracious in voice as if it gave me

pleasure to be in his company, “I, too, am sorry that there have

been misunderstandings. But when one is misinformed----”

“Ah!” he said eagerly. “So your mind was poisoned against me,

cousin? Let me now swear to you that in all this I have sought

nothing but your own comfort and safety. When Fairfax determined to

attack Sir Nicholas I entreated that the matter might be placed in

my hands so that no insult should be offered to yourself. Alas!--I

know not what it was that prejudiced you against me in this. Suffer

me to believe that you are satisfied with my explanation, cousin.”

“I am sorry that I did not know your true character earlier,

cousin,” I answered.

“I am overjoyed to think that we are reconciled,” said he, “it has

hurt me much to feel that I lay under your displeasure.”

“I have observed to others,” I said, still humouring him, “that

you are a devoted cavalier, Master Anthony,” and I gave him a

smile that fetched the colour to his face, “and so I expect you

to attend me to my father’s house, and there you shall be duly

rewarded--maybe with----”

“Ah!” said he, coming nearer to me. “With what, cousin?”

“Why,” said I, with another smile, “with what so devoted a knight

has the right to expect,” and with that I whipped up my horse and

rode forward as if in some confusion. He laughed and came after me,

and so we pressed on to Hardwick agreeing very well indeed.

Now when we turned into the courtyard of the old house the sight

of the ruin caused by the cannon was like to make me weep, but I

restrained myself and suffered Anthony Dacre to lead me within. The

kitchen and hall were least damaged of the lower apartments, and

in the former we found old Barbara and Jasper who were pottering

about in sore lamentation, and seemed vastly surprised to see us.

I addressed Barbara in my grandest manner giving her at the same

time a glance that she understood plainly enough.

“Barbara,” I said, “Master Dacre is escorting me to my father’s

house, but before we go forward we will refresh ourselves if you

can make shift to give us food and drink. You will not refuse to

dine with me, Anthony,” I said, turning to him with a smile that

was meant to subdue him.

Now it is marvellous--and never so much so, I think, as to us

women ourselves--that a woman’s beauty and manner hath power to

change a man from his purpose more rapidly than any other form

of persuasion. As I looked at Anthony Dacre I knew that I could

do with him as I pleased. He mumbled something in the way of a

compliment that I scarcely heard, though I affected to do so, and

smiled back my thanks to him for it. He was won over--but oh, the

anxiety that I still felt lest my plans should miscarry!

While Barbara prepared food and drink for us, I went over the house

under pretence of making myself ready for our further progress.

It was a sad sight that my eyes beheld. The upper storey of the

house had been well-nigh shattered to pieces, and the room in which

my uncle died was a heap of stones and dust. But my own chamber

was undisturbed, and thither I presently repaired and made such

alterations in my apparel as were sorely needed. Nay, when I looked

at myself in the mirror I marvelled that I had been able to make

any impression on Anthony Dacre, for my adventures of that day and

the previous night had made me anything but attractive. Now it was

necessary (beauty being the greatest weapon which we women can arm

ourselves and aid our natural cunning with) that I should make

myself as attractive as possible, and so I gave some considerable

attention to my toilet, and at last went downstairs to find Anthony

Dacre, and proceed with the development of my plans.

I found him in the small parlour that adjoined the hall, where

Barbara had contrived a hasty meal for us. He looked at me with

some astonishment as I entered, and I noticed as I returned his

glance that he, too, had taken some pains to smarten himself up. I

walked to the head of the table, and motioned him to take a seat

at my right hand. But he came forward and took my hand as if to

lead me to my chair, and no sooner did his fingers touch mine than

he broke out into the most extravagant profession of love for me,

swearing by all that is holy that he adored me in the most devoted

fashion, and beseeching me to have some pity on his condition. All

this I was compelled to endure and even to affect to receive with

complaisance, though inwardly I was filled with two thoughts--the

first, that I could cheerfully have stabbed him where he stood; the

second, that he was playing into my hands. I heard him to the end,

and then I disengaged my hand from his and drew away from him.

“Cousin,” I said, “this is not the time or place for us to discuss

these matters. It is possible,” I said, looking at him, “that I

have been mistaken in you, as you say, and if so, I am indeed

sorry, and will strive to make amends. But I think it will be best

if you accompany me to my father’s house, and there prosecute your

suit--if indeed, you really feel for me what you say--after the

fashion usual amongst people of our degree. You must speak to my

father first,” says I, with a coquettish glance at him that made

him ready to obey me on the instant.

“But yourself?” said he. “What answer will you make to me if I

fulfil your wishes in this?”

“Why,” I said, looking, I daresay, very modest and conscious,

“I think that if you really obey me, I may perhaps be found more

complaisant than you have fancied, cousin.”

“My angel!” he cried, and would have embraced me had I not

anticipated some such proceeding on his part and escaped him.

“Come,” I said, smiling, “let us have some food, cousin--we have a

long ride before us, and for myself I have had little to eat since

last night.”

He took his seat near me, and I occupied myself in paying him much

attention, and seeing to his comfort. As for me, it well-nigh

choked me to eat a crumb of bread; but, lest he should observe that

I was anxious or pre-occupied, I forced myself to make a hearty

meal. Barbara had furnished the table with a flask of my uncle’s

old Tokay, and more than once I filled Anthony’s glass with my own

hands. What a comedy it all was, and yet what a tragedy seemed to

be playing itself out in my heart at the time!

When at last he would eat and drink no more, I approached the

subject that lay closest to my thoughts. “Now,” thought I, “Heaven

send me strength and wit to carry out my project!” And I think my

prayer must have been answered quickly, for I spoke with calmness,

though every nerve in my body seemed to me to quiver with anxiety

and apprehension.

“Cousin,” I said, “what will they do with Richard Coope?”

He looked at me narrowly. I could see that the mere question raised

his jealousy and distrust on the instant.

“They will shoot him,” he answered, keeping his eyes on mine.

“I supposed they would,” said I, affecting a rare carelessness.

“Poor Dick! But ’tis I suppose, the fortune of war, eh, cousin?”

“’Tis the treatment always meted out to deserters and traitors,” he

said.

“Well,” said I, “’tis a pity that a kinsman of ours should die a

shameful death, is it not, cousin?”

“It is not to the credit of the family,” he answered. “But an

offender against the cause must be punished.”

“Why,” I said, “I think Dick offended under some misapprehension,

and ’tis rather a pity that he should die for that when you

and I, cousin, have been so fortunate as to clear away our own

misunderstanding. Could we do nothing to save him from so violent a

death?”

“No,” he said, “naught. By this time it is probably over.”

It was only by the strongest effort that I was able to preserve my

composure when he said that. I affected to take no particular heed

of it.

“I wish we could have saved him,” I said presently. “I fear my

father will visit his displeasure upon both of us for our neglect

to say a word in Dick’s favour. He thinks so much of family ties,

cousin. But I trust he may not, for I do not wish you to meet

with a frown from him when you conduct me home, under the--the

circumstances that you spoke of a little time ago,” said I, giving

him a sly glance.

“I would do aught to please you, cousin,” he exclaimed. “But in

this matter of Dick Coope, what can I do, even if he be still

alive, which I question? I have no influence with Fairfax.”

“You must surely have some,” I replied. “One who has rendered such

service.”

“Why, I may have some slight claim upon him,” he said. “But come,

cousin, what signifies Dick Coope--let us talk of ourselves.”

“Dear Anthony,” said I, “we shall have so much time for that

afterwards, and i’ faith I am concerned about Dick--though indeed

I have no cause to trouble myself about him, seeing that he and I

could never abide one another’s presence--for the reason that my

father and our relations will be sore vexed at his death. And I am

so anxious that naught should occur to vex my father at this time,”

I added, looking significantly at him, “that if it were in my power

I would do something to save Dick, and get him out of the country.

Is there aught that we could do in that way, cousin?”

“I won’t say that something might not be done,” said he. “I might

contrive his escape if he still lives.”

“I would give something if that were done,” said I. “Why, that’s

noble and generous in you, cousin! Come, I think the more of you

for that. But is the thing possible?”

“There are three things that would make it so,” said he, looking

narrowly at me.

“And what are they, cousin?” I enquired.

“Why,” said he, “first, if he’s still alive; second, if there’s

money in the house to secure his release; and third, if you will

reward me for my efforts on his behalf.”

“I reward you?” said I, affecting a great surprise. “How can I

reward you, cousin?”

“By bestowing yourself upon me without delay, fair cousin!” he

cried, throwing himself at my feet and seizing my hand.

“Why,” said I, affecting a pretty confusion, “I thought that I had

already given you some promise of the sort--but ‘without delay’

sounds so formidable--will not a year hence suit you, cousin?” I

said.

“A year hence? ’Tis an age--a century!” he exclaimed, possessing

himself of both my hands. “It must be at once--I cannot endure my

passion to remain unsatisfied, fair coz; indeed, I love thee so

much.”

“I could do much for a man that gratified my whim,” said I.

“And by heaven,” said he, “I will gratify it if I’m in time!

Promise me, cousin, that you’ll marry me to-night, and I’ll save

Dick Coope--that is,” he said, with a sudden caution, “if he’s yet

alive, and if you can find me money for the enterprise.”

“But to-night?” said I, much confused. “Oh, cousin--why, was ever

aught so sudden? Let us say a month hence, or a fortnight.”

“No,” he said, “to-night--this very night. I will bring a clergyman

with me.”

“I am so taken aback,” I said. “Let us say a week hence, cousin.”

“No,” he said. “A week? ’Tis a lifetime--you must make me the

happiest of men to-night if I do this for you. Come, yes or no,

coz?”

“Why,” said I, looking away from him, “you deserve to be rewarded

for your enterprise, Master Anthony, so I will say yes. But--nay,”

I said, as he made as if to embrace me, “let us defer all that

until we have some leisure--bethink you what there is to do. We

must bestir ourselves if you really mean to win me for your own ere

to-morrow morning. What is our bargain, cousin? That you are to

rescue Dick Coope and bring him here, and that I am then to reward

you with my hand?”

“And your heart,” said he, still pressing me with his attentions.

“Why, of course,” said I, and laughed. “Come, cousin, let us sit

down and make our arrangements,” and I contrived to keep the table

between us. “Now, first,” I said, giving him the bag of gold which

Dick had handed to me when we were caught by the troopers, “there

is money for your needs in this matter. Now let us settle all other

things. First, you are to set out forthwith for Pomfret and busy

yourself about Dick’s escape. You will, I suppose, bribe those that

have him in charge?”

“Leave that to me,” he answered, with a chuckle. “I know a trick or

two of that sort.”

“I am sure of it,” said I. “Then you are to bring him here so that

he can be furnished with money for his journey out of the country.”

“Must he come here?” said he. “If I manage his escape----”

“Why, to tell you the truth, cousin,” said I, “I want to see him

for a good reason. Sir Nicholas on his death-bed confided to Dick a

secret as to the hiding of some considerable treasure, and I want

to have it out of him. He cannot refuse to tell me after what we

have done for him,” I said.

“He shall be brought here,” he answered.

“And when will you return with him?” I said.

“Why,” said he, musingly, “I have a plan, and if it goes as I think

it will, it will be within an hour after midnight.”

“Then I will expect you, cousin,” said I. I paused a moment,

and then looked at him in a shy fashion. “And you will bring

a clergyman with you?” I said, striving, and I hope with some

success, to counterfeit a becoming modesty.

“Assuredly I will!” he cried.

“Then go, dear Anthony,” I said. “But stay, there are two other

matters--I do not like the notion,” I said, looking about me

with an air of distaste, “of spending my wedding night in this

house--could not we ride to your own house at Foxclough immediately

after the ceremony? I should find that much to be preferred,

cousin.”

“Why,” said he, “’tis a ten mile ride--and the old place is but

poorly furnished--but since you wish it, cousin, I will despatch

one of my men with strict orders to have it prepared for our

reception during the night.”

“And your other man?” said I, “will you leave him here to protect

me?--old Jasper is but a poor guard, and there is no one but

Barbara and myself in the house.”

“Agreed,” said he. “And now I must hasten--egad, the time will go

but slow till I return with the parson, fair coz!”

“Hasten!” said I, “you must fulfil your bargain if you would gain

your prize. Nay,” I said, seeing that he was minded to embrace me,

“lose no time, cousin--I shall be impatient for your return,” and

I gave him a smile as he went out of the door that was intended

to encourage him. I watched him across the kitchen and saw that

he spoke to the two men; then he rode out of the courtyard and I

returned to the parlour, calling Barbara to attend me there. And

we had no sooner entered and closed the door than I swooned, the

excitement of the scene I had just gone through proving too much

for me to bear any longer.

“This will not do,” I said when Barbara had brought me round, and I

sat up feeling somewhat recovered. “There is still much that I must

undertake.” I began to plot and plan afresh, telling old Barbara

sufficient of what was going on to explain my anxiety to her. Truly

I was by that time in a sad condition, for there was first the fear

lest Dick should already be beyond my help, and second, the thought

that my plans should miscarry ere they could be worked out as I

wished. “’Tis a desperate game,” I said to myself, “Heaven help me

to play it to the end and give me success!” And therewith I began

to consider my next movement.

Now so far as matters had turned out I had nothing to regret,

and last of all, the seeming deception which I had practised on

Anthony Dacre. It may seem to you who read this narrative that I

had played upon him in the vilest and most heartless fashion by

promising to marry him. But there was no deception in it, save on

his side, for all the time that he spoke with me of marriage he was

in reality meditating my ruin. I knew what he did not know that I

knew--namely, that he was already married. I had come to know it

by the most curious chance. Soon after Sir Nicholas Coope fell ill

and took to his bed, there came to see him old Master Drumbleforth,

a neighbouring clergyman, who chanced to inform him that he had

married Anthony Dacre to one of his parishioners some few years

previously, and that the woman still lived, though sore neglected

by her husband. And I think it was because of knowing this that

I felt it neither heartless nor deceitful to treat Anthony as I

did. My own happiness and the life of the man I loved were at

stake--what true woman would have let squeamish notions about nice

points of honour stand in her way at such a time?

I now proceeded to carry out my further plans, all of which I had

duly considered since my first notion of saving Dick entered my

head. Towards the close of the afternoon I rode over to Master

Drumbleforth’s vicarage and confessed to him all that I had done

and all that I had it in my mind to do, and begged him to come to

the Manor House that night in order to help me to carry out my

last intentions. He promised to do so and gave me his blessing and

sympathy, comforted by which I returned home. My next proceeding

was to get rid of the man whom Anthony Dacre had left with us.

I made up a parcel of my clothing, and giving it to him, bade

him follow his fellow-servant to Foxclough and bide there until

Anthony and I came in the night. He went without question, and when

he was fairly departed, I mounted my horse again and rode off to

Thorpe, where I saw John and Humphrey Stirk. I arranged that they

should come to the Manor House early that night and remain there

until Anthony Dacre returned. This done, my arrangements were all

complete. I had carried out everything that my woman’s wit could

devise, and there was naught left but to return home and wait with

a fierce impatience for the outcome of my endeavours.

This is a true history of what I, Alison French, did on that

distressing day. God send that no other woman be ever placed in

such trying circumstances as those which I have here faithfully

described. As for the end of them all, it will be much better

spoken of by Richard, who has a turn for the writing of books, than

by me, who have none.

THIS IS THE END OF MISTRESS ALISON’S ACCOUNT OF HER TRANSACTION

WITH ANTHONY DACRE.

III.

I do not think that I had slept above half-an-hour when I was

awoke by Merciful Wiggleskirk, who laid his hand on my shoulder

and at the same moment bade me make no noise. There was a very dim

moonlight flooding the cottage when I opened my eyes, and at first

I took it for the dawn and thought that my last hour was come.

“So they are ready, eh, lad,” says I, sitting up. “Faith, the

night’s been short, but thank God, I have slept soundly.”

“Hush, master,” says he. “The night’s not half over. We have work

to do yet. Hearken to me--are you minded to escape if I show you

the way?”

“What’s all this?” I says, staring at him in the dim light. “Say

plainly what’s on your mind.”

“Why, then,” says he, “your cousin, Mistress French, has devised

some plan of rescuing you, and it falls to me to carry out this

part of it. Are you willing?”

“Willing!” I says. “Come, let us hasten.”

“First,” says he, “let me doctor your foot. We have still a quarter

of an hour. I waked you in advance of the time so that I might be

able to minister to your hurt. It may be that you’ll have to use

that foot whether it pain you or no.”

“I’ll make shift,” says I, all impatient now that I knew Alison had

not forgotten me. I was anxious to proceed to our next movement,

but Wiggleskirk made me sit down while he rubbed his balm of Gilead

into my leg. He busied himself in this fashion for some minutes,

and then proceeded to bandage my ankle and foot with linen swathes.

“There,” says he at last. “Now stand up, master, and see if you

cannot use your foot a little.”

Now, whether it was the healing powers of Merciful’s ointment,

or my own excitement at the thought of regaining my freedom that

worked such wonders in me, I don’t know, but whatever it was I

found on putting my foot to the ground that I could walk with some

little difficulty. There was still much stiffness and discomfort in

my foot, but the pain had abated in marvellous fashion.

“Thou art a very miracle-monger,” says I. “Come, what do we turn to

next?”

“Have patience,” says he. “There’s much at stake.” He opened the

door of the cottage and looked forth. The moon was then dipping

into a bank of cloud. “Now,” says he, “I think we may venture,” and

he beckoned me to follow him. We left the cottage, and turning the

corner crept along behind the hedgerow. For fifty yards I contrived

to amble along, but then the pain returned, and I was forced to

call a halt. “Pain or no pain,” says Merciful, “we must onward,”

and he drew my arm within his and supported me. Soon we came to

a little grove of trees. “Here are two men with four horses,” he

whispers in my ear. “Ask no question of them--all you have to do

is to mount and ride. I shall be at your side, and we are going to

your cousin.”

We were now close to the horses, and one of the men, coming

forward, assisted Merciful to lift me into the saddle. “All clear,”

says Merciful, and we set out across the fields, the three men

closely surrounding me. One of the strange men led the way, and I

observed that he was careful to keep clear of the town. For some

time I was not sure as to the direction we were following, but

after skirting the fields that lie between Tanshelf and Mill Hill

we eventually came out on the Barnsdale road, and ere long I saw

the top of the old manor rising up in the moonlight.

“Surely we cannot be going there!” I thought. But when we came

to the corner of the village street our leader turned his horse,

and in a few minutes they were assisting me to dismount in the

courtyard. “Well, this,” thinks I, “is the strangest adventure,”

but I said naught. The men tied their horses to the rings at the

mounting-stone, and Merciful Wiggleskirk gave me his arm. And then

all four of us were at the porch, and the door of the great kitchen

opened, and there stood Alison, holding a lamp above her head, just

as she had stood when I and the Stirks came to warn her of her

danger but a few nights before. I stared at her as she looked at us

and was amazed. Her eyes were bright, there was the rarest colour

in her cheeks, she had never looked so handsome, I swear, but there

was something in her face that I had never seen there before. It

was excitement, apprehension, fear--I know not what; but when her

eyes fell on me it vanished. She gave me one swift look, and then

turned into the kitchen. The two strangers followed her close, with

me and Wiggleskirk in attendance, and as we came into the light

the foremost of them threw aside the cloak that had so effectively

concealed him from me. It was Anthony Dacre!

I looked from him to her. She stood, proud and haughty by the

hearth, and gave no more heed to me than if I had been a stone.

Anthony Dacre spoke, setting his eyes on her boldly.

“There, madam,” says he, with a bow that began at her and finished

at me, “you see how well I have executed your commands. Here

stands Master Richard Coope, alive and unhurt Have I done well,

fair cousin?”

“You have done excellent well, sir,” says she.

“Then there is naught left, madam,” says he, “but to claim my

reward.”

“And that,” says she, “you shall have without delay. But first I

must transact that business with Master Coope that I told you of.

Master Richard, will it please you to step with me into the hall

for a moment?”

But I looked at her and then at him.

“Hold!” says I. “What is the meaning of all this, and what is that

reward you speak of, Master Dacre?”

He gave me a triumphant look.

“In return for saving your life,” says he, “Mistress French confers

upon me her hand and heart. Here,” he says, motioning towards the

man at his side, “is the clergyman who will presently marry us.”

“Is this true?” says I, and looked at Alison.

“And what right has Master Richard Coope to ask such a question?”

says she, in her haughtiest manner. But she had contrived to get

’twixt me and Anthony, and she gave me a look which signified

so much that I saw through all this mystery in an instant. “By

heaven!” thinks I, “she has tricked him after all!” And I followed

up her clue. “Nay,” says I, sulkily, “it’s naught to me, mistress.

But what’s this business that you speak of?”

“Step with me into the hall,” says she. She turned to Anthony,

and gave him the sweetest look. “We shall need but a few minutes,

cousin,” she says.

I hobbled into the hall. She followed me close, and shut the door.

I turned to her, and as our eyes met she threw her arms about my

neck, and held me to her. “Oh, Dick!” she cries. “My dear, my dear,

if you knew what I have gone through. But you are safe,” she says,

starting away, “and there is so much to do. Come----”

“Alison,” I said, holding her hand. “What is all this--what does it

mean?”

“Dick,” she says, looking me straight in the eyes, “do you love me?”

“As my life--and more!” says I.

“And will you marry me--now?” she says.

“Now?” I says. “But I will do aught that you wish,” I says, sore

mystified.

“Come, come!” she says, and drags me to the door of the little

parlour. “There are good friends here,” she says, and leads me

within.

There was old Drumbleforth, the parson, there, with John and

Humphrey Stirk. Alison led me up to the clergyman. “Stand by the

door, John and Humphrey,” says she. “Now, Master Drumbleforth, will

you wed me to my cousin?”

“You are both of a mind, children?” says the old man, looking from

one to the other. “But I see you are,” he says, and opened his book.

So we were married, and as the parson said his last word I took my

wife in my arms and kissed her for the first time.

By that time I was well nigh amazed with the succession of

conflicting emotions that I had experienced during the day and

night. I could not believe that things were real. I stood staring

at Alison and old Parson Drumbleforth. She smiled at me, and then

seemed to recollect herself.

“John,” says she, “do you and Humphrey see to your arms, and give

my husband those that you have prepared for him. There may be

need for them, but I think not. Now----” she left the parlour,

and crossed the hall. She flung open the door. “I am ready for

you, Master Anthony,” she cried. “Will you step this way with your

friend?”

She came back and stood at my side, putting out her hand to touch

mine. And then came Anthony Dacre, followed by the other man, and

they stopped on the threshold and stared at us.

Faith! I am not sure that I did not pity Anthony as he stood

there. He looked at Alison and at me, and from us to old Parson

Drumbleforth, and at sight of him his face turned from red

to black, and from black to white. He looked back to Alison.

“Tricked!” he says. She looked steadily at him: his eyes dropped:

he turned to the door. But Merciful Wiggleskirk had followed them

in, and had now closed the door behind them, and stood against it

with a pistol in his hand.

Anthony Dacre turned to sudden rage. “Let me go,” he says.

“When Master Drumbleforth has answered some questions,” says

Alison. She turned to the old man. “This afternoon,” she says,

“Anthony Dacre asked me to marry him. Have you aught to say to

that, sir?”

“Child,” says old Drumbleforth, “He is married already--I married

him myself in my parish church of Darrington.”

“He has brought a clergyman with him to perform the ceremony,” says

she, still watching Anthony. “Step forward, friend--let us look at

you.”

The man drew nearer, with evident unwillingness. He removed his

cloak from his face. “He paid me to do it,” growls he, motioning

towards Anthony.

“Preserve us!” says Merciful Wiggleskirk. “’Tis Tobias Tomkins of

our troop--he is no more a parson than I am, and not half so much

so.”

“I had meant to ask Master Drumbleforth if he recognised him for

a clergyman of the rural deanery,” says Alison. “But there’s no

need. I have no more to say. And yet----” she paused and looked at

Anthony once again. “I have played with fairer weapons than yours,”

she says.

IV.

And now there was naught left but for Alison and myself to make

good our escape. We had been favoured in the most marvellous

fashion up to that time, but we were not yet out of danger, and it

was necessary that we should lose no time in removing ourselves

from a neighbourhood wherein there was so much to imperil us. So I

desired Alison, Master Drumbleforth, and Merciful Wiggleskirk to

accompany me to another apartment where we might discuss matters in

privacy. Anthony Dacre and Tobias Tomkins I left in charge of John

and Humphrey Stirk, bidding the latter have no mercy on them if

they made any attempt to escape.

“And now,” says I, when the four of us were safely bestowed in

another room, “what’s to be done next? ’Tis clear that we must quit

this presently and put as many miles as possible between us and our

enemies ere daybreak. The question,” I says, looking from one to

the other, “is----where shall we go?”

“If I may speak,” says Merciful Wiggleskirk, “I say let us go to

the Low Countries. I say us because I am going with you, master and

mistress. Don’t say me nay--faith, you’ll find me useful enough ere

we’ve come through our troubles,” he says.

“’Tis a long journey,” says I, doubtfully, looking at Alison.

“Long or short, ’tis a safe place that we shall find at the end

on’t,” says Merciful. “And ’tis not so long either if we can but

light on a ship at Hull.”

“I am of Master Wiggleskirk’s opinion,” says Master Drumbleforth.

“What say you, Alison?” says I.

But for answer she put her hand in mine. “Anywhere with you, Dick,”

says she.

“The Low Countries be it, then,” says I. I looked round me. “Shall

we ever see the old house again?” I thought to myself, cursing the

fate that drove me and my bride out of its shelter like beggars.

But that was no time for such thoughts. “Come,” I says. “Let’s be

stirring--what is that you propose, Merciful Wiggleskirk?”

“Why,” says he, “what I propose, master, is simple enough--that we

presently mount our horses and set out for Hull, there to find a

ship. And since we have a fifty mile ride before us,” he says----

“Let’s waste no time in starting,” says I. “Come, see to the horses

while I arrange for the safe custody of our prisoners.”

“Pity that we cannot knock them on the head for vermin,” says

Merciful, and bustled out of the room on my errand. Master

Drumbleforth followed him to find his own beast. I turned and took

Alison into my arms.

“Sweetheart,” says I, “this is but a poor wedding-night for you.

I fear we have many troubles and difficulties ahead out of which I

would fain keep you.”

“Nay,” says she, laying her hand on my mouth, “no talk of that

sort, Dick. We have faced more than one trouble together--I’ve no

fear of aught that may come,” says she, smiling at me. “Oh, my

dear, I love you so that troubles seem naught when I share them

with you.”

“Why, then,” says I, leading her towards the door, “all’s well

indeed.” I paused and held her at arm’s length, looking long and

steadily into her eyes. “My wife!” I says, and caught her to my

heart, only to release her again and look at her smiling face in

sheer wonder. For to tell truth, my head was half turned with the

strange doings of that day, and I could scarce comprehend that

Alison was really and truly my own.

I think we might easily have forgotten our predicament, so wrapped

up in each other were we, had not Merciful Wiggleskirk come

bustling back again with news that the horses were in readiness.

I sent Alison to her chamber for such baggage as it was necessary

she should carry with her, and while she was thus employed, I went

back to the room where John and Humphrey mounted guard over our

prisoners. I bade them follow me without, and locked the door with

my own hands.

“Now,” says I, handing the key to John Stirk, “you will keep these

fellows in safe custody for three hours, lads, at the end of which

time you may release them to go their ways as the devil, their

master, prompts.” “By that time,” I says, “I trust we shall be

beyond their reach. And so farewell, honest lads both, and pray God

we meet again under this roof ere long with happier surroundings.”

And I shook their hands, and went out to join Alison, who was

busied in saying farewell to Barbara.

There was a faint moonlight as the four of us rode away across the

moor towards Darrington. It was then one o’clock in the morning,

and the air was of a biting keenness that seemed to penetrate to

the very bones. Master Drumbleforth, muffled to his eyes, stooped

over his horse’s neck and said naught; Merciful Wiggleskirk rode

in front, humming a psalm tune to keep his jaws from chattering;

Alison and I rode side by side in the rear, both occupied, I think,

with our own thoughts, which were--if I may judge by my own--of

that diverse complexion which is made up of sweet and bitter. For

first I cursed the fate that drove me and my bride from the house

where we should have settled down in peace and comfort, and then I

blessed the day that had given me to wife the woman whom I loved

with a deep and abiding passion. And somehow the happiness of the

last thought drove out the bitterness of the first, and as we swept

past the hedgerows and trees in the faint moonlight, I began to

feel a sense of elation that made me bold and resolute to encounter

whatever further peril lay before us.

At his parsonage house in Darrington village, Master Drumbleforth

drew rein and took leave of us, bidding us God-speed, and wishing

us a safe deliverance from all our dangers. We called back our

thanks to him, and rode swiftly forward through the sleeping

village until we came to the Great North Road. At the corner of the

inn stables, Merciful drew rein.

“I am half undecided,” says he, “whether to go forward through

Womersley and Snaith or to turn along the north road, and cross the

river at Ferrybridge. What say you, master?”

“’Tis more likely to be safe by Snaith than by Ferrybridge,”

says I. “Fairfax’s troopers are in force along the river-side at

Ferrybridge.”

A window in the inn was thrown open above us, and a man looked out

as if to enquire our business. Merciful turned his horse. “Do as I

do,” says he, in a whisper. “By Ferrybridge, then,” he says in a

loud voice, and rode away up the hill. Alison and I followed. We

were half a mile outside the village before Merciful spoke again.

“We are not for Ferrybridge after all,” says he. “I liked not the

throwing up of that window, for the man who put his head out is in

a position to say which way we have gone. Therefore, I came along

the north road. We will now turn down this by-lane, and rejoin the

Womersley road at Stapleton. Do you see my meaning, master?”

“Clearly,” says I. “Though I don’t see who can follow us.”

“Best give no chance,” he says. “We can’t be too careful. I shall

breathe more freely when we’re across the Aire, and in a fair way

for Hull.”

We now doubled back upon our old track, and presently came

into the Womersley road, about a mile from Darrington village.

For half-an-hour we rode through the woods of Stapleton, which

overshadowed the road on either side, and shut out what moonlight

there was. Then came the long, winding street of Womersley, and the

clatter of our horses’ feet against the cottage walls, and then we

were into a thickly wooded country again, relieved here and there

by wild patches of marsh and moor. In a shifty light (for the moon

that night was of an uncertain behaviour) we raced across Balne

Common. It was near three o’clock when we drew near to Snaith, and

pulled up our horses under the shelter of a wayside coppice to

consider our further plans.

“Shall we cross the river at Snaith,” says Merciful, “or shall we

go on by the south bank to the ferry over the Ouse at Hooke? There

is something to be said for both roads.”

“I know naught of either,” says I, “and must therefore leave the

matter to your own decision, lad. I incline to the straightest

road, so long as it is fairly clear of interruption.”

“I think we’ll make for Hooke,” says he, after he had meditated

awhile. “From Howden to Hull there is a good turnpike road, and we

shall make better progress. God send we find no interruption at the

ferry!”

So we rode forward again, through Cowick and Rawcliffe, leaving

Snaith on the left, and made good progress until we came to Airmyn

at four o’clock in the morning. But there, just as I was beginning

to feel sure of our deliverance, we received a sudden check that

took all the conceit out of me, and left me a prey to more doubts

and fears than I had any fancy for.

Airmyn was all alive. There were lights in every house, and as

we came along the street we heard sounds of shouting and singing

as though the place were filled with roysterers rather than with

peaceable villagers. Coming to the open space before the inn

we found a crowd of men and horses, and made out from a little

distance that the former were Royalist troopers. With a common

consent we drew rein, and looked at one another by such light as

the candles and lanthorns in the cottage windows afforded us.

“What say you, Merciful?” says I. “Shall we venture through this

mob, or is there some by-way that we can try?”

“There is no by-way,” says he, shaking his head. “And they see

us by this time, and would think it suspicious did we turn back.

Best go forward as if we were travellers in haste to continue our

journey. Remember,” he saying, bending over to me, “that you are a

country gentleman, travelling with your lady and servant to Hull,

and that we are all staunch Royalists.”

“Can we play the parts?” says I.

“I can play a good many parts to save my neck,” says he. “Come, we

are observed, master--let’s move forward.”

So we shook our reins and went on. There was a round score of

troopers grouped about their horses before the inn, with here

and there a stable lad running about, flaring torch in hand, the

streaming light from which gave a grotesque appearance to the men

and animals. I leaned over and laid hold of Alison’s bridle, and so

we approached the crowd, none of whom seemed disposed to make way

for us.

“By your leave, gentlemen,” cries Merciful. “My master and mistress

are in haste, and would fain ride forward if you will give them

room.”

But the men in front made no show of compliance, and one burly

fellow laid hands on my bridle reins and on Alison’s, staring

impudently into my face.

“Body o’ the Pope!” says he. “What have we here? Whither away so

fast, my pretty gentleman, with mistress madam? I’ faith, art come

at the right time if thou wishest a score of proper fellows to

drink her health.”

“Good friend,” says I, very anxious to keep my temper, “I wish

naught but to proceed upon my way with as much speed as possible.

We are on business of importance, and have no time for aught that

would hinder us.”

“Shalt not pass until we have drunk madam’s good health!” he cried

vociferously. He turned, shouting to his fellows, “Hey, lads, see

what the morn brings us--a pair o’ runaway lovers, as I am a true

man. Come, Master Solemn Face, let’s see the colour of thy money

that we may drink----”

But at that moment an officer came out of the inn calling loudly

for order.

“Silence, men!” he shouted. “Is this Bedlam that you all talk

together like so many madmen? Sure, I command the most unruly troop

in His Majesty’s service! What have you there, Sergeant Strong?” he

says, pushing his way through the crowd towards the man who held

our bridles. A sudden turn of one of the torches threw a glare

of light across Alison’s face. The officer doffed his hat on the

instant and came closer to us, holding it in his hand.

“Sir,” says I, seizing the advantage, “I am travelling with my wife

and servant for Hull, and am anxious to lose no time on the road.

If you’ll desire your men to give us room we’ll proceed,” I says,

giving him a low bow.

“I crave a thousand pardons if my fellows have offered you a

rudeness, sir,” says he, bowing to the ground. “Sergeant Strong,

give way--get the troops together and call the roll.” He turned to

us again as the big man moved off. “You will pardon my fellows,

sir,” he says, looking very admiringly at Alison. “They are

somewhat cock-a-whoop because of a trifling victory gained last

night. So you are for Hull?” says he, seeming loth to say farewell

to us.

“And are in much haste to get there, sir,” I says.

“I and my troops are for Beverley,” says he. “We go the same road

as far as South Cave. Let me advise you to accept our escort--the

enemy is in force across the river, and madam might find it

unpleasant to fall into their hands. If you will accept our

protection----”

“Why, sir,” says I, very impatient, “I thank you very heartily. But

we are in great haste and must needs ride fast----”

“Your beasts seem spent now,” says he, with a sharp look at the

horses. “I think our heavy cattle will match them.”

“Take his offer,” whispers Merciful at my elbow.

“In that case, sir,” says I, “I accept your offer gladly. I

daresay we shall be the better of your protection.”

“It shall be willingly bestowed, sir,” says he, still mighty

polite. “But since we do not start for an hour (I wait that space

in order to join a troop that is riding to meet me at the ferry) I

would advise you to give your horses a feed of corn and to refresh

yourselves at yonder inn. The benefit will be yours, sir.”

Now, I had not bargained for any delay, being in a great anxiety

to push forward, but I reflected that our beasts were weary, and

that an hour’s rest would help them to bear the further strain

to which we must needs subject them. I therefore dismounted, and

having assisted Alison to alight, led her within the inn, leaving

our horses to the care of Merciful Wiggleskirk, who lost no time in

conducting them to the stables.

The officer, preceding us into the inn, called loudly for the

landlord, who bowed the three of us into his best apartment and

desired to know our pleasure. As for me and Alison I think we had

no stomach for either eating or drinking, but I desired the man

to set his best before us, and we made some show of breaking our

fast. Meanwhile the officer had introduced himself to us, and

seemed highly desirous to make as good an appearance as possible,

protesting that as a true servant of His Majesty it was his duty to

protect the King’s loyal subjects--all of which, I take it, was in

the way of so much tribute to my wife’s beauty, and a sure proof

that a woman’s prettiness can achieve more than all the common

sense and reason in the world put together.

“I’ faith!” says he. “I am glad to meet you, sir, and am

unreservedly obliged to you and your lady for your kindness in

giving me your company. ’Tis poor work for a man of quality to ride

at the head of his troop with none fitting to hold converse with

him. I promise myself,” he says, with yet another bow, “a most

profitable ride ’twixt now and our parting.”

“Why, sir,” says I, “’tis very good of you to say so, though I

fear we shall prove but poor company.” And indeed I felt but

little disposed to hold converse with him or any other, being sore

anxious as to our future movements. But Alison, full of her woman’s

wit--albeit as anxious as I--came to my aid and talked to him,

making herself mighty agreeable--much to his pleasure--until the

hour was past and the troop departed, the officer with Alison and

myself bringing up the rear.

As we rode along the river side into Hook village the dawn came,

grey and misty. There was a bank of white fog over the Ouse, which

was there a wide and swift river, mightily swollen at that moment

by the recent rains. Down at the ferry the air was cold and thin,

and I saw Alison shiver as we sat our horses by the water’s edge. I

looked round me at the dull, flat landscape, and the wintry river

at our feet, and felt a sense of coming trouble. “I have led thee

into perilous doings, sweetheart,” says I, laying my hand on hers.

But she looked at me with the rarest smile, and I knew then that

because of her love for me she was willing to face whatever might

come.

Our friend the officer, while we waited at the ferry for the troop

that was to join him, amused himself by drawing up his men in order

of battle and putting them through various movements. I think he

designed these things in order to draw our attention to his own

person and importance, for he was in sooth a perfect coxcomb, and

seemed to delight in showing off his airs and graces. So concerned

were we with our own thoughts, however, that we perceived little

of what went on immediately before us. Alison and I sat apart,

conversing now and then. Merciful Wiggleskirk walked his horse up

and down the road in a fashion that clearly proved his uneasiness.

And presently, after an excursion to the end of the turn he came

back to my side, and drawing rein as if naught had happened, leaned

over and spoke to me in a low voice.

“Master,” says he, “we are pursued.”

“Pursued?” says I. “What makes you think that?”

“I have just been to the top of the road,” says he, “and caught

sight of a troop of horse coming along under the woods a mile off.

In another minute or so you’ll hear the sound of their horses’

feet,” he says, nodding his head towards the highway.

“Why, man,” says I, “’tis the troop of horse that this officer is

now waiting for that you have seen. He expects them to join him

here every moment.”

“No,” says he, “for these are Roundheads--I can tell the difference

’twixt Roundheads and Cavaliers at three miles. We are pursued,

master, as I feared we should be, and if Anthony Dacre has a hand

in it we shall have to fight. And the question is,” he says, with a

glance at Alison, “what is to be done with madam?”

“Have no fear on that point,” says I. “Fetch the officer to us,

Merciful, and let us tell him our fears. If we are pursued we may

as well ask our new friends to defend us.”

While he rode off I turned to Alison and told her our fears. “I

doubt,” says I, “that Anthony has escaped the Stirks and raised a

hue-and-cry after us.”

“We will not be separated, Dick,” says she. “If it comes to the

worst give me a pistol and they shall see that I can use it. Only

promise to let us keep together,” she says, imploringly.

But ere I could answer, the officer comes riding up with Merciful

at his heels. I lost no time in telling him our fears. “Sir,” says

I, “you have been so kind to us that I scarce like to trouble you

with more of our misfortunes, but we are like to be in a sore

plight. The fact is that I and my wife--and ’twas but yesterday

that we were married--are closely pursued by a troop of Roundheads

from Fairfax’s camp at Pomfret, and my man has just sighted them

along the road there. You can even now hear their horses’ feet.”

“Faith,” says he, “I do hear something of that sort, but I think

’tis the troop that I am to meet here.”

“No, master,” says Merciful, “they are Roundheads--I observed their

headgear narrowly.”

“Then we are in for another fight!” cries the officer, rubbing

his hands. “Have no fear, sir--do you and your lady sit apart, and

you shall see as pretty a bit of war-play as you could wish for.

Hold--I have it! Do you conduct madam, sir, into yonder house, and

let your man stable your beasts at the rear. I promise you we will

soon settle these crop-eared rogues, and be ready to escort you

onwards within the half-hour. Hah!--now I hear them plainly--suffer

me to get my men in order.”

Now, I should dearly have liked to draw my sword, and had a share

in the coming fight, but the officer’s advice seemed good, and in

a trice all three of us had ridden round to the rear of the house

overlooking the ferry, and were off our horses. While Merciful

hurried them into the barn, Alison and I made for the house. There

was no person to be seen within but an old woman, who scuttled

away at the mere sight of us. And that being no time for ceremony

we made our way to an upper chamber, whose windows looked out upon

the street, and from behind the curtains gazed at the progress of

events below. From our point of vantage we could see along the

highway by which we had ridden from Snaith. Almost immediately

before us it made a sudden turn, where it dipped towards the

ferry, and it was in this turn, hidden by a tall farmstead that the

Royalist captain had drawn up his men along the roadside. I saw his

plan on the instant: it was to let the advancing troop sweep by,

and then to hem them in between the high ground and the river bank.

The Roundheads came on at a gallop, evidently unconscious of

the fact that the ferry lay close before them. They rode in a

close-packed body, some thirty in number, and at their head as they

swung round the bend, I saw the evil face of Anthony Dacre, whose

eyes were like those of a hound that scents its prey.

With a swing and clatter that woke all the echoes of the

neighbouring houses, the troop dashed round the corner of the

farmstead and into the presence of the Royalists. Every man of the

latter had his sword drawn, and as the Roundheads swung by, pulling

on their horses’ reins lest they should go over the river bank,

they charged with a crash that made the blood tingle in my veins,

and Alison cover her face with her hands. And in good sooth ’twas

no pleasant sight that we gazed upon. Three men had gone over the

bank and were perishing miserably in the grey stream, calling on

their friends for help that could not be given. Here and there,

trampled underfoot by the horses, and presently battered into

unrecognisable masses of flesh and blood, lay men that had been cut

down ere ever they could draw weapon. High above the curses and

cries, the shouting of the men and the neighing of the plunging

horses, rose the clatter of the swords as Roundhead and Royalist

hewed away at each other, and the battle cry of the latter, roared

from the leathern lungs of Sergeant Strong, who was here and there

like a mad bull, slaying at every stroke.

I suppose it was all over in a few moments, for the Roundheads,

riding full tilt into an ambuscade, had never a chance, and were

overwhelmed in point of numbers into the bargain. But as the fight

ebbed away I seized Alison’s arm. “Look, look!” I cried, and

pointed to the road beneath.

There was a sort of small courtyard immediately before us, and

within it, swept aside by the struggling mass of men and horses

about them, Anthony Dacre and the Royalist officer fought, foot to

foot. Both were covered with blood, and both fought fiercely as if

for life. But the Royalist was pressing Anthony hard; he retreated

yard by yard until the wall lay close behind him; I saw in his face

the look that comes to a man’s eyes when he knows that death is at

last before him, not to be denied. And at that I threw open the

casement to lean out and see the end. At the sound, Anthony Dacre

looked up. He saw me, and Alison at my shoulder, and I saw his lips

form a curse. And at the same instant the Royalist’s sword passed

through his heart, and I caught Alison away lest she should see

him fall and die. But at the sound of a bugle I went back to the

window, and saw the troop that we had waited for riding up to the

ferry to find their comrades hot with the heat of victory over the

Roundheads who lay dead or dying in the middle of the highway.

And so it was all over, and we were free of our enemies. Late that

night Alison and I, with Merciful Wiggleskirk in attendance, were

in the Market Place at Hull, weary and sore bespent, but devoutly

thankful. Ere daybreak next morning we were sailing down the

Humber, and so at last I had some leisure to look at my wife and

assure myself that all the events of the past week were realities

rather than dreams. But that they were realities her sweetness did

most abundantly prove to me, and in spite of the fact that we were

exiles, she and I spent our first years of married life in Holland,

in as sweet a contentment as lovers could wish for.

But after many years we came back to England and to the old house.

And since it was half-ruined, I set to work to rebuild it, and

somewhat altered it in appearance and design. We transferred

Sir Nicholas’s body from its first quarters to its proper

resting-place. On the spot where we first buried him I now spend

many hours, sitting in his chair, and telling my eldest son,

Nicholas, of the brave doings that I have had in our old house. And

for the sake of him and of his brothers and sisters--for I warrant

you we have been blessed with a numerous progeny!--I have written

down this chronicle at such times as I have had naught better to do.

When I showed the first pages of this book to my wife, she took

some objection.

“Sure,” says she, “I never called you Master Poltroon.”

“Sweetheart,” says I, “you did.”

“But you called me Mistress Spitfire,” says she.

“And that’s what you were,” says I.

“Was I?” says she. “Well, maybe I was--but you were never Master

Poltroon.”

Faith! ’tis mighty comforting that she has so good an opinion of me.

THE END.

TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

* * * * *

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

WHEN CHARLES THE FIRST WAS KING

LIFE IN ARCADIA

THE WONDERFUL WAPENTAKE

GOD’S FAILURES

AT THE GATE OF THE FOLD

THE QUARRY FARM

WHERE HIGHWAYS CROSS

BALLADS OF REVOLT

* * * * *

_ALDINE HOUSE,

69 GREAT EASTERN STREET, E.C.,

AND

67 S. JAMES’S STREET, S. W.

OCTOBER 1896._

Messrs. J. M. Dent & Co.’s New Novels and Stories

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* * * * *

_By the Author of “The Wheels of Chance.”_

Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt top. Third Edition. 5s. net.

THE WONDERFUL VISIT.

By H. G. WELLS,

AUTHOR OF “THE TIME MACHINE,” ETC.

W. L. COURTNEY, in the Daily Telegraph.

“It would be indeed difficult to overpraise the grace, the

delicacy, and the humour with which the author has accomplished his

task. It is all so piquantly fresh, so charmingly unconventional,

that it carries one away with it from start to finish in a

glow of pleasurable sentiment. Rarely, amidst all the floods

of conventional fiction-spinning and latter-day psychological

analysis, does one come across such a pure jet of romantic fancy as

that with which Mr. Wells refreshes our spirits.”

Pall Mall Gazette.

“Enthusiastic we own that we are; no book could be more prodigal

of honest delight, and its promise leaves hardly any literary

accomplishment beyond the aspiration of its author.”

Saturday Review.

“A striking fantasia, wrought with infinite tact, charm, and

wit.... The conversations are full of light and delicate (rather

than full-bodied) wit, and it becomes sufficiently pungent at

times; but underlying the sweet or acid wit, or even the pure fun

(for fun abounds), there is a vein of seriousness and sadness

which, with the beautiful descriptive miniatures scattered here and

there, justify us in calling the story a piece of literature.”

Referee.

“So fresh and imaginative a piece of work, that Mr. Wells, we begin

to think, is the new man in fiction. Not only the ingenuity of the

story, but the logic of it is such that we know no writer since the

author of ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ who could show such amazing power in

sustaining the illusion of truth under like conditions.”

Scotsman.

“The whole story is so delightfully coherent that, whether in the

amusing or in the touching passages, it pleases always. So much

that is clever, comical, tender, whimsical, and of healthy fancy.”

* * * * *

Crown 8vo, 4s. 6d. net.

IN THE VALLEY OF TOPHET.

BY H. W. NEVINSON,

AUTHOR OF “NEIGHBORS OF OURS.”

Daily Chronicle.

“Mr. Nevinson’s keenness and clearness of observation of his

characters comes of his deep sympathy with them. Through the mirk

and mire, the folly, the ignorance, and the superstition, he sees

the good human stuff. Hence his humour has always in it something

of pathos, and his pathos is just lightened by a touch of humour.

He plumbs profound depths. He not infrequently brings a lump to the

throat.”

Athenæum.

“In a series of a dozen epistles, more or less connected, he has

set forth, with a vividness which one would suppose can only be

the result of careful personal study, the grim humour and the

grimmer pathos of the lives that are lived about Cradley, Dudley,

and Walsall. It is to the author’s credit that in depicting these

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animal traits natural to a swarming and neglected population, to

steer almost wholly clear of the Zolaesque crudities in which some

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Scotsman.

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or mawkish; and the stories never fail to be impressive. The book

will enhance the reputation its author gained by his ‘Neighbours of

Ours,’ and will no doubt be widely read.”

Glasgow Herald.

“Mr. Nevinson has succeeded in exacting the marrow from his subject

in a fashion that should place him at once high amongst our

contemporary writers of fiction. His vein of romance, his slow but

delicate humour, and his strong humanity of touch remind us more of

Miss Mary Wilkins than of any other living writer that we can call

to mind. His book is one to read and re-read, and then to lay aside

for future enjoyment.”

* * * * *

Crown 8vo, cloth, 4s. 6d. net.

THE TOUCH OF SORROW.

BY EDITH HAMLET.

(EDITH LYTTELTON).

Times.

“The style is good and the observations are keen enough.”

Daily Chronicle.

“‘The Touch of Sorrow’ appears to be the author’s first novel, and

as such she may safely congratulate herself both upon its promise

and its performance.”

Daily Telegraph.

“Miss Hamlet’s powerful story.”

Dundee Advertiser.

“The course of the story is simple and free from complication, yet

it is written with freshness and engrossing charm. At some points,

indeed, the interest of the reader is strained almost to intensity.

Miss Hamlet has studied human nature, and particularly her own sex,

to advantage, and more of her wholesome and pleasing studies will

be welcomed.”

Daily Mail.

“‘Edith Hamlet’--under which designation is veiled the identity of

the Hon. Mrs. Alfred Lyttelton--has set forth this main theme with

much tenderness, insight, and emotional power. The character of

Stella is perfectly natural, and is consistent throughout. The book

is intensely womanly, in the best sense of the word, and many of

the writer’s ‘thoughts by the way’ are fresh and striking.”

Westminster Gazette.

“It is extraordinarily refreshing, by turns jaded and perplexed

as we are with sex problems and complications arising out of the

married state, to watch, absolutely without their aid, the birth

and development in this joyous, radiant being of the Sorrow Soul.”

Glasgow Herald.

“This thoughtful and able story.”

Liverpool Post.

“A charming literary effort and clever study.”

The Guardian.

“Stella Morecombe is one of those rare heroines whose charm is felt

by the reader as well as described by the writer.”

* * * * *

Crown 8vo, cloth, 4s. 6d. net.

IN THE WAKE OF KING JAMES.

BY STANDISH O’GRADY,

AUTHOR OF “ULRICK THE READY.”

Athenæum.

“No one now living writes a better story of adventure than Mr.

Standish O’Grady.... It has every quality that is of value in such

a story.... It ought to be devoured for pure delight by all the

young people in the kingdom.”

The Speaker.

“A robust and excellent piece of work.... Mr. Standish O’Grady must

be warmly congratulated upon so unequivocal a success as he has

achieved in this thrilling romance.”

Manchester Guardian.

“A striking and powerful romance of love and adventurous peril....

Mr. O’Grady is to be congratulated and thanked for a spirited piece

of imagination, full of swing and vigour. This story, at any rate,

does not ‘buckle and bow the mind to the nature of things,’ but

quickens the pulse and stirs the blood in the name of chivalry.”

Scotsman.

“The tale is vivid and vigorous above most, and there is about it

a fine briny flavour of the Atlantic.... Old Thomas is certainly

a villain of the first water, and what is more to the purpose, a

villain of a new type.”

Freeman’s Journal.

“Without any disparagement to the power and brilliancy of any of

Mr. O’Grady’s work, we think that we have here perhaps the most

interesting and finished of his novels.... The hero’s adventures,

mishaps, and captivity in the grim old hold of his malevolent

cousin, and his final rescue by the quick-witted and courageous

Lady Sheela, will be read in the volume before us, and we will not

spoil the reader’s enjoyment of the full flavour of those startling

adventures by any attempted foretaste. ‘In the Wake of King James’

will undoubtedly do much to increase the already high reputation of

its author.”

Weekly Irish Times.

“Do you want to read a thoroughly fresh and stirring romance? If

you do, get Mr. Standish O’Grady’s last novel, ‘In the Wake of King

James.’ ...The wild work that goes on in the old castle, and the

hair-breadth escapes ... should be enough to quicken the pulses of

the most sluggish-blooded reader.”

* * * * *

Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net.

DR. VERMONT’S FANTASY,

AND OTHER STORIES.

BY HANNAH LYNCH.

Athenæum.

“Original observation and a rare reticence of detail.”

Daily Chronicle.

“Miss Lynch has proved in previous work that she has at command the

most precious of gifts, the gift of charm. These stories are all,

more or less, interpenetrated by it. Nor is the working of it in us

merely while we read. It recurs unbidden in the ‘sessions of sweet,

silent thought.’”

Vanity Fair.

“Miss Hannah Lynch’s new volume, ‘Dr. Vermont’s Fantasy,’ is

the finest piece of feminine literary work, take it all in all,

that has been accomplished in Great Britain during the present

generation. Miss Lynch belongs to no school; she has chosen the

best models here, there, and everywhere, and formed her own

style. I cannot say what model has been dearest to her; but the

general effect is Greek--the massive dignity, the repose--with the

exception of the story ‘Brases,’ which is supposed to be written by

an excitable Frenchman--the cold simplicity keeping in check but

never conquering the rich warm temperament of the Irish author....

Her matter in the average cheap and skilful hands would win

immediate recognition, so abundant and full of interest is it.”

Dundee Advertiser.

“The climax, great because of its very simplicity, shows that

the authoress has a very rare gift as a writer of fiction. In

its entirety the collection offers not only something new, but

something that will remain attractive. It might be the work of any

one of the best French writers. Not that the style is copied. It

is the work of one who has not only studied French fiction as a

scholar, but who has herself marked and pondered over the life from

which she has drawn her men and women.”

Scotsman.

“This writer’s work is distinguished among the host of similar

productions that clamour for public attention to-day by being

much stronger than the ruck. The pictures of life of to-day are

recognisable ... they have no mawkishness in tone, and, while

laying the shadows heavily in, do not forget that the prime office

of the literary, as of the other arts, is to please. The skill

they show in giving literary shape to the less obvious moods and

phases of feeling that a present-day reader must recognise as

peculiar to his own generation is remarkable; and there is not one

of the stories that has not its own peculiar variation of this

consistently maintained interest.”

* * * * *

Crown 8vo, 4s. 6d. net.

IN THE HEART OF THE HILLS:

A NEW ENGLAND STORY.

BY SHERWIN CODY.

Scotsman.

“The tale is told in a simple, straightforward way, and the peace

that is in the everlasting hills pervades and inspires it.”

Glasgow Herald.

“An extremely pretty and natural story quaintly and simply told,

and has a rural atmosphere that is very alluring to the jaded

palate.”

Illustrated London News.

“A delightful story.... It is some time since we have read a

sweeter love-scene than that with which the book happily closes;

and, indeed, throughout you feel yourself in Arden.”

* * * * *

Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net.

VENUS AND CUPID;

Or, A TRIP FROM MOUNT OLYMPUS TO LONDON.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

“THE FIGHT AT DAME EUROPA’S SCHOOL.”

Nottingham Express.

“This fantastic romance is calculated to offer delightful amusement

to a multitude of readers, and ought to have a great run of

popularity. It is a long time since we have read anything so

provocative of laughter. The idea of the book is most happy and

humorous; and its development leaves nothing to be desired. Every

chapter is full of fun and frolic, and it is impossible to find

a dull page from the beginning to the end of the story. It would

be unfair to disclose the particulars of this unique ‘personally

conducted tour’; but we warmly recommend holiday-makers and all

others who are on the look-out for a lively and entertaining book

to secure a copy of ‘Venus and Cupid,’ and if they do not find

in it magic to brighten a wet day at the seaside, they are quite

free to anathematise the reviewer. Our verdict is that a more

mirth-provoking romance has seldom if ever been published.”

Birmingham Post.

“The story is thoroughly consistent, that having accepted the

position--the visit of these august personages to earth--all the

details are worked out in harmony with this conception, with

abundant fun and humour and fancy. Cupid--or Q, as he is called--is

the most delectable little rogue, and we were quite sorry to say

good-bye to him.”

* * * * *

Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net each volume.

EMANUEL.

BY HENRIK PONTOPPIDAN.

_Translated from the Danish by_ Mrs. EDGAR LUCAS.

ILLUSTRATED BY MISS NELLY ERICHSEN.

Daily Chronicle.

“Extremely interesting story ... most delicately delineated, and

charms us by its idyllic grace and purity.”

Manchester Guardian.

“As a novel pure and simple the book is altogether out of the

common, and the firmness of its character-drawing, the sympathetic

rendering of nature’s background, and the prominence given to the

life of the clergy, it reminds one not a little of the work of

Ferdinand Fabre, the novelist _par excellence_ of French clerical

life.”

Glasgow Herald.

“Among the many Scandinavian works that have of late appeared in an

English dress, few have worn it with a more charming air than this

tale of Henrik Pontoppidan’s, for a really excellent version of

which we have to thank Mrs. Lucas.... The tale is told in a fashion

that recalls, among our own writers, the intimate knowledge and

loving descriptions of Miss Mitford or Mrs. Gaskell. It is not very

far from being a work of real genius.”

* * * * *

_UNIFORM WITH THE ABOVE._

THE PROMISED LAND.

Pall Mall Gazette.

“A story simple and strong, with much quiet pathos, keen analytic

power, and graphic picturing of character and place. It is a book

to read, enjoy, and muse over, both for its domestic and political

interest.”

Scotsman.

“It is told with so equable an art and with so much fidelity,

both to the general life which a reader of any nationality can

understand, and to the local conditions to Denmark, that it is

always full of a quiet intense interest. The English version is

throughout well done, and it has the advantage of a series of

pleasant illustrations from the pen of Miss Nelly Erichsen.”

Manchester Guardian.

“It is impossible to read it without feeling that Henrik

Pontoppidan is an artist of the first rank.”

* * * * *

Crown 8vo, cloth. 3s. 6d. net.

THE STORY OF A MARRIAGE.

BY MRS. ALFRED BALDWIN,

AUTHOR OF “WHERE TOWN AND COUNTRY MEET,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY J. AYTON SYMINGTON.

Pall Mall Gazette.

“We have not seen for some time anything that, without any

suggestion of imitation, more vividly recalls the manner of George

Eliot than do some of Mrs. Baldwin’s characters.”

National Observer.

“Mrs. Baldwin has a very pleasant humour of her own, and a rare

gift of characterisation.”

Athenæum.

“‘The Story of a Marriage’ shows considerable promise for

the future of its author. It contains several excellent

character-sketches, drawn with real humour and insight.”

St. James’s Gazette.

“Uncommonly well written.”

* * * * *

Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt top. 3s. 6d. net.

THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND, AND OTHER GHOST STORIES.

BY MRS. ALFRED BALDWIN,

AUTHOR OF “THE STORY OF A MARRIAGE,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY J. AYTON SYMINGTON.

Leeds Mercury.

“For those who love a good, downright, thrilling tale of the

supernatural, just the thing.”

Pall Mall Gazette.

“A handful of weird stories, as calculated to ‘freeze our blood’ as

were the Fat Boy’s revelations to the Maiden Aunt. Are a welcome

collection for the lovers of the supernatural.”

Scotsman.

“Believe or disbelieve it as you like; at least you cannot deny

that it is a capital story and well told.”

Athenæum.

“The author shows considerable skill in working up to a climax.”

* * * * *

Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net. each.

THE ILLUSTRATED NOVELS OF ALPHONSE DAUDET.

TARTARIN OF TARASCON.

TARTARIN ON THE ALPS.

KINGS IN EXILE.

ARTISTS’ WIVES.

RECOLLECTIONS OF A LITERARY MAN.

THIRTY YEARS OF PARIS.

JACK. 2 vols.

ROBERT HELMONT.

Globe.

“A very pretty edition, excellently printed on good paper,--the

attractively bound volumes should be much in request.”

Glasgow Herald.

“A very readable and enjoyable version. The little volume is neatly

and tastefully bound; and if Daudet’s other works are to follow in

the same style, the whole collection will be a charming one.”

Scotsman.

“The book, which is a history of literary Paris of the time, as

well as a record of the author’s own life and work, ranks as one of

the classics among French books of its kind. It will be a boon to

many to be enabled to read in English a book which is a model of

easy style, and delightful in its frank estimates of men and books.”

Weekly Sun.

“Mr. Dent has been at pains evidently to give to the exterior

of these volumes a daintiness and an elegance suitable to their

tone; and certainly the volumes are in an exquisite dress. The

translations, too, are so good, that one often forgets that one is

not reading an original work--which is the highest praise one can

bestow on a translation.”

Dundee Advertiser.

“The publishers have spared no pains to render the volume

attractive. It is daintily illustrated and prettily bound, and

exterior and interior are alike attractive.”

Illustrated London News.

“It is hardly too high a compliment to the illustrations of this

new edition to say that they are as exquisitely humorous as the

text of which they double your enjoyment.”

* * * * *

Square fcap. 8vo, cloth, gilt top, Illustrated, 2s. 6d. net. each.

_THE IRIS LIBRARY._

Glasgow Herald.

“_The Iris Library volumes are so dainty and beautiful, that one

always takes up with pleasure a new one. All that good type, good

paper, and pretty binding can give in the way of attraction these

books have._”

TRYPHENA IN LOVE.

BY WALTER RAYMOND.

Times.

“‘Tryphena’ is far the best work that Mr. Raymond has yet given

us.... It is a work of art; nowhere redundant, nowhere deficient,

steeped in sterling human nature, and instinct with quaint humour.”

MAUREEN’S FAIRING.

BY MISS JANE BARLOW.

Freeman’s Journal.

“Some of the best writing Miss Barlow has yet done ... filled with

a fidelity to Irish nature, marvellous in its closeness. Since

Rudyard Kipling gave us his Wee Willie Winkie, new fiction has

contained no character to match with Mac.”

MRS. MARTIN’S COMPANY, AND OTHER STORIES.

BY JANE BARLOW.

Spectator.

“The first in this little volume is a perfect gem of bright

delineation of the mixed simplicity and faith of the Irish people.

Nothing could possibly be told with happier touches of both human

and devout fancy than this beautiful story.”

A RINGBY LASS, AND OTHER STORIES.

BY MARY BEAUMONT.

Leeds Mercury.

“Half a dozen stories, every one of which is a gem, and every gem

of which is set in brilliants.”

A MODERN MAN.

BY MISS ELLA MACMAHON.

Pall Mall Gazette.

“This extremely clever sketch, with its subtle analysis and almost

pitiless dissection of character and ‘motives,’ is as intensely

modern ‘as they make them.’”

CHRISTIAN AND LEAH.

_Translated from the German of Leopold Kompert, by_ ALFRED S.

ARNOLD.

Birmingham Post.

“The tales are tenderly told, and the life of the Ghetto is made

very real to us as we read, and beautiful as well as real. There

is amid the sordid surroundings ... an ever-present dignity and

sublimity of conception about the great mysteries of life, and a

moral purity, which win respect and admiration.”

THE WITCH OF WITHYFORD: A ROMANCE OF EXMOOR.

BY GRATIANA CHANTER.

Pall Mall Gazette.

“Charmingly told with a simplicity and delicacy that marks an

ability above the common.”

WHERE HIGHWAYS CROSS.

BY J. S. FLETCHER.

Guardian.

“A charming idyll. Thoroughly original and cleverly worked out.”

A LOST ENDEAVOUR.

BY GUY BOOTHBY.

Saturday Review.

“An exceedingly effective story; he grips the reader from the

outset, and holds him to the end.”

LIVES THAT CAME TO NOTHING.

BY GARRETT LEIGH.

* * * * *

Pott 8vo, cloth, gilt top, 1s. 6d. net each volume.

_Odd Volumes Series._

ASTECK’S MADONNA, AND OTHER STORIES.

BY CHARLES KENNETT BURROW.

Manchester Guardian.

“It is turned out with all the daintiness we have learned to expect

from its publishers. If its contents are an earnest of the standard

of workmanship to be maintained in the remaining volumes, we can

look forward to them with pleasure. Each one of the nine stories is

technically a work of art.”

To-Day.

“The daintiest, lightest, and best printed book I have ever seen at

the price. The first two pages are enough to show that the author

has great gifts, a sense of the fitness of words, an ear for the

rhythm of fine prose--a style, in fact. But he has more than these.

He has observed keenly and felt deeply the moods of nature and of

human nature. He writes with knowledge, and from the heart. Two

main ideas I find informing the book--a love of the great peace

that lies near the heart of nature, and of the courageous spirit

(born of that peace) which enables a man to look life in the face,

fight its battles, and enjoy its fruits.”

KIRIAK; Or, THE HUT ON HEN’S LEGS.

_Translated from the Russian of_ COUNT SAILHAS _by_ Mrs.

SUTHERLAND EDWARDS.

Scotsman.

“The simplicity of the story, and the truth and delicacy of touch

with which its pathetic central figures are drawn, give the book a

rare charm.”

World.

“Told with a rugged force, and unstrained pathos, and a mastery of

simple yet beautiful imagery that reflect the unmistakable literary

genius of Count Sailhas, its author.”

IN RUSTIC LIVERY.

BY GEORGE MORLEY.

The Literary World.

“His name will have to be written down whenever a list of worthy

suppliers of short stories is being made.... Mr. Morley has given

us a little book of distinct charm and individual flavour, and we

record our thanks with a marked sense of pleasure.”

THE CLOSING DOOR.

_Authorised Translation from the German of_ OSSIP SCHUBIN

_by_ MARIE DOROTHEA GURNEY.

Glasgow Herald.

“Its chief attractions lie in the skill with which it blends pathos

and humour, the vividness of its sketches of Austrian society, and

the high moral tone which pervades it. As a further attraction,

in as far as the British reading public is concerned, it has been

excellently translated.”

Scotsman.

“Both characters and action are depicted with a humanity that makes

the pleasing effect of the story independent of local colouring.

It is a healthy and a delightful story, and will stimulate its

author’s growing popularity in this country.”

MAN.

BY LILIAN QUILLER-COUCH.

Scotsman.

“Every sketch is cleverly built round a dramatic situation, and

none of them ever wholly loses sight of the poetical aspects of its

subject.”

_NOW READY._

AMOS JUDD.

BY J. A. MITCHELL.

* * * * *

THE NOVELS OF H. DE BALZAC.

An entirely new translation of the COMÉDIE HUMAINE.

Edited by GEORGE SAINTSBURY. Translated by Miss

ELLEN MARRIAGE and Mrs. CLARA BELL. With

3 Etchings in each volume by W. BOUCHER and D.

MURRAY-SMITH. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net.

For Large Paper Edition apply to the Booksellers.

_The following volumes are already published:_--

=The Wild Ass’s Skin.=

=The Chouans.=

=Eugénie Grandet.=

=The Quest of the Absolute.=

=The Unknown Masterpiece.=

=A Bachelor’s Establishment.=

=Pierrette= and =The Abbé Birotteau=.

=The Country Doctor.=

=The Cat and Racket.=

=Ursule Mirouet.=

=Old Goriot.=

=The Atheist’s Mass.=

=La Grande Bretêche.=

=César Birotteau.=

=Modeste Mignon.=

=The Village Parson.=

=Béatrix.=

_The following volumes are in active preparation:_--

=The Peasantry.=

=A Harlot’s Progress.= 2 vols.

=About Catherine de Medici.=

=A Woman of Thirty.=

=A Lily of the Valley.=

=Lost Illusions.= 2 vols.

=Seraphita.=

=The Seamy Side of History.=

=Cousin Betty.=

=Cousin Pons, &c. &c.=

Athenæum.

“The volume is got up with the taste the publishers have taught the

public to expect of them.”

Times.

“Certainly few English critics are better qualified than Mr.

Saintsbury to write either a general introduction such as he here

gives, dealing with Balzac’s life and the general characteristics

of his work and genius, or a series of prefaces such as he promises

for each succeeding volume.”

Glasgow Herald.

“The translation (‘Old Goriot’) has been done by Miss Ellen

Marriage, and is characterised by that accuracy and fluency of

style which, in the five or six volumes already contributed by her

to the series, have shown her thorough competency for as difficult

a task as a translator could undertake. It has the singular merit

of being so idiomatic and natural that those who do not know the

original might easily take it to be an English story of Parisian

life, and yet so true to Balzac’s manner that those who are

familiar with him will recognise many of his peculiarities even in

the version, and almost find themselves doubting whether they are

reading him in French or English.”

Glasgow Herald.

“Mrs. Clara Bell, who is responsible for these stories (‘La Grande

Bretêche’) has again done her work with remarkable skill and

fidelity. We have read through the version of ‘La Grande Bretêche’

with the original before us, and we have not found a single passage

with which the most exacting critic could fairly find fault.”

* * * * * *

Transcriber’s note:

Obvious punctuation misprints corrected. Inconsistent hyphenation

is typical for the period and was retained, as was period spelling.

“fulful” changed to “fulfill” on page 163. (I will indeed fulfill

your wish)

Chapter III is missing a heading for section II.