THE TRAVELLER RETURNS
Throughout the day, Mrs. Yellam hovered in and out of Fancy's room,
instinctively conscious that her patient was less strong, but
obstinately determined to fight that instinct. Outwardly, there was no
change. Fancy lay quiet, thinking and talking of Alfred. Lizzie Alfreda,
happily, evoked no maternal anxiety. Colic did not disturb the infantile
slumbers. She smiled ineffably at a bottle which contained
Frisian-Holstein milk drawn from prize-winners, and judiciously blended
with lime-water. On this mild tipple the child thrived amazingly. The
monthly nurse now retired to her own cottage at night, returning in the
morning. Susan Yellam slept upon a small bed made up in Fancy's room.
The doctor had expressed gratification at the increasing vitality of his
patient. And on the Wednesday, he said that he should not call again for
three days, unless he were sent for. He congratulated Susan upon her
devotion and skill with unmistakable sincerity.
In the afternoon, the morning's drizzle became a downpour, and the Avon
escaped from its banks. If such rain continued, the Yellam cottage would
soon become an island. Susan was not disturbed by this. Nothing
mattered; nothing distracted her save the overpowering determination to
put Fancy on her feet again. Fancy would assume control of her child.
And then an old woman would sit down, fold her hands, and await the end.
Her premature conviction that Fancy would die and that she would live
had been modified on reflection. Susan held theories about life and
work. Before the war she had contended that folks were called when their
work was done. A few rotten apples might stick to the tree, but they
proved the general rule. Fruit fell to the ground when ripe.
Satisfied in her mind that she would save Fancy by her own undivided
efforts, Mrs. Yellam contemplated with grim satisfaction her approaching
decease. She regarded herself as dead. She could survey with detachment
what was left of the Susan who rose early, waited diligently upon Fancy,
ate her meals (without any pleasure in them) and lay down to troubled
sleep. So chilled was she in mind, soul and body, that she noticed
without regret that Solomon, the faithful Solomon, too affectionate, too
demonstrative to a hard old flint, had transferred his allegiance to
Fancy. The dog lay at the foot of her bed night and day. Fancy talked to
him about Alfred, not about Lizzie Alfreda, because Solomon was jealous.
When Lizzie Alfreda came in, Solomon went for a run in the garden, and
heartened himself up by sniffing at various food-stuffs in a delightful
state of decomposition. But, oddly enough, he never wandered farther
afield. Within half an hour--Lizzie Alfreda's visits were drastically
curtailed--he would patter up the wooden stairs, scratch at the door,
whine, and be admitted. In a jiffy he was on the bed again, staring hard
at Fancy, as if he were a doctor contemplating a change of treatment.
It had been agreed between Hamlin and Mrs. Yellam that Alfred's death
should be kept a secret from the villagers till the official
notification appeared in the newspapers. But when Uncle walked into the
cottage at tea-time, full of cheer despite the weather, and cracking
many small jokes about boats and swimmers, Mrs. Yellam simply could not
bear it. She said with startling abruptness:
"Habakkuk, I'd break bad news to 'ee gently, if I could. But 'tisn't in
me to do it. Alferd be dead."
Poor Uncle could not take it in.
"But, Susan, Alferd be lost."
"'Twas a shell. They couldn't find 'un, because there was nothing to
find."
To her dismay, Uncle bowed his head upon his hands and wept like a
woman, shedding the copious tears that might have softened the hard eyes
steadily regarding him. He had loved Alfred. Susan knew this. He could
have better spared one of his own sons rather than this kindly,
affectionate nephew. She rose quietly and fetched the letter, giving him
time to recover his self-control. As she held out the letter, he raised
a face to hers so seamed by grief and pain that almost, almost her heart
melted within her. He read the letter and returned it. She put it away,
and took a chair upon the other side of the hearth. Uncle gazed about
him, noting, as men do upon such occasions, trifles that escape notice
in happier times. The coffin stools stood in their old place against the
wall. Uncle pointed at them, with trembling finger:
"Fancy be dead, too."
"No. She be more like herself to-day, although tarr'ble weak. They
stools be for me, Habakkuk. The sooner I goes the better."
No inflection of resignation tempered this statement. Uncle, like
Hamlin, realised the futility of condolence, but silence imposed too
great a burden upon him.
"You has the baby," he suggested.
"She belongs to Fancy. I bain't afeard for they two."
"Be you afeard for yourself, Susan?"
She eyed him, sensible of an ever-increasing aversion to questions. Was
he thinking of punishment hereafter, of Hell's fires?
"I bain't afeard o' Hell, and I bain't going to Heaven. For why? Heaven
and Hell be here on earth--and nowheres else."
"Susan----!"
"Ay, you be mazed, and no wonder. But I be come to that. I believed in
God A'mighty; I believed in Satan--for sixty long years. But such belief
be clean gone."
"You be wrong, Susan. It ain't in me to argufy wi' 'ee, and, maybe, tear
both our hearts. But you be wrong. The swallers knows better'n that. Who
gave 'em their wisdom? I says no more but this: God sent His Own People
into the wilderness, where you be, and He brought 'em out."
She shook her head. Uncle stood up.
"'Tis rainin' crool hard, but I be off to the Forest. You won't want
Jane fussin' about 'ee? No. Or anybody else. I allers allowed as misery
loved company, but I be so miserable this day that I wants to be alone,
as you does."
He kissed her cold cheeks and went out into the rain.
She sat on for a minute, but the thought that worried her most was the
regret that he had not had his tea. The day was failing fast. In a
moment she would have to light a lamp and carry it upstairs. But
something remained to be done, a duty neglected since the morning.
She went into the parlour, where the light was better, but not good;
good enough, she reflected, for her purpose. She lifted the Bible,
placed it upon the middle table, and opened it at the fly-leaf. Then she
took pen and ink from her desk and a clean sheet of blotting-paper. She
took out her spectacles, wiped them carefully, put them on, and sat
down. Against Alfred's name she made the necessary entry, "_Killed in
Action_," adding the date. Her hand never trembled; the writing was
characteristic; firm, bold, with the words neatly spaced, indicating
love of order. What she had willed herself to be, she was: a flint
embedded in sterile soil. She took off her spectacles and placed them in
their case, rising as she did so. Upon second thoughts, she decided to
let the ink dry upon the page. Suddenly, an irresistible impulse gripped
her. She glanced about her furtively, defiantly, as if challenging
unseen powers to thwart her determination. Hastily with fingers that
trembled this time, she snatched up the pen, dipped it into the ink, and
wrote against her name, Susan Yellam, these words:
"_Died. December 28th, 1916._"
As hastily, she placed the sheet of blotting-paper above the entries,
closed the Bible, and replaced it upon its table.
Having shut up the parlour, she lit a lamp and carried it upstairs. The
baby was asleep. The nurse went home for the night. Then Mrs. Yellam
told Fancy, in a cheerful voice, that she would bring up tea in a few
minutes.
"I thought I heard Uncle," said Fancy.
"Yes; he looked in and made some stupid jokes, he did, about gettin' the
miller's boat."
"Whatever for?"
"Like as not we may be on an island afore nightfall."
Fancy smiled.
"I'd love to ride in miller's boat again. Alfred popped the question in
that. I did tease him first. 'Twas rare fun. I suppose Uncle was in fine
fettle, as usual?"
"Yes; I never seen him so gay and joyous. Now, you lie so quiet as any
mouse whilst I gets tea."
It might have been so delightful a meal. Outside, the wind roared and
the rain fell in sheets; inside, the logs crackled in the fireplace, the
warm curtains were drawn, and the lamp shone upon Mrs. Yellam's best
tea-things. Everything that could tempt a capricious appetite was there:
fragrant tea, cream, jam, honey, and little scones which warranted the
belief that Susan Yellam had secreted somewhere a bag of white flour.
Susan had to sustain the burden of talk, and soared to heights. Fancy
must be entertained--the doctor's injunction. The old woman's amazing
will surmounted all obstacles. And who shall say that this
heart-breaking effort to beguile Fancy was not the most selfless
achievement of Mrs. Yellam's long life? She described passages in
Uncle's early career; anecdotes about Jane, anecdotes about her own
Lizzie and Alfred. As a boy, it seemed, Alfred had been very untidy. He
never kept his own little attic in order. Finally his mother said to
him:
"Alferd, your room bain't a boy's room, nor a dog's kennel, nor a pig's
stye. 'Tis the habitation of a lunatic."
Fancy smiled, because the mother must have spoken at the time, and again
now, with such inimitable seriousness.
After tea, Fancy was commanded to rest. But before doing so, she caught
hold of her entertainer's hand, and said earnestly:
"How good you are to me, Mother! How good and kind you always are to
sick folk. Such a wondersome woman! I hope my lil' maid will grow up
just like you."
"If you talk such outrageous nonsense, I'll--I'll spank Lizzie. That'll
larn 'ee."
But Fancy refused to be gagged. She went on, in her soft, feeble tones,
expatiating upon Mrs. Yellam's many virtues and excellencies. Time was
when Susan would have listened to this praise with smug complacency.
Fancy did but state the facts. And the mere recital of them exasperated
the listener beyond endurance. Steel striking flint--and praise had
become steel--provoked sparks.
"I be real vexed wi' 'ee, Fancy."
She bustled off with the tea-things, and remained absent so long that
Fancy began to fear that she had really offended her. Solomon, however,
reassured her on this point. They exchanged pleasant chat about Alfred.
Fancy felt jealous because Solomon would know when Alfred was coming at
least five minutes before she did.
"You'll jump off the bed and bark."
Solomon wagged his tail.
"My! Won't he get wet if he comes to-night, Solly? Are you expecting him
to-night, you wise little dog?"
Solomon put a cold nose into her hand. Mrs. Yellam's step was heard on
the stairs. Solomon retired to his end of the bed, well aware that
prolonged talk had been forbidden after tea.
Mrs. Yellam, seeing that Fancy was awake, said impressively:
"We be an island at this minute."
"Oh, dear!"
Mrs. Yellam assured her that it had often happened before. The cottage
itself stood high above the encroaching waters. At highest flood they
were not more than two feet deep.
"Alfred'll get so wet."
"Ay. I never thought o' that. I think, Fancy, that you did ought to put
this strange notion of Alferd's coming out of your dear lil' head. 'Tis
most onlikely. I dunno' how such a queer idea got into it."
"Because he promised me that he would come."
"But, Lard bless 'ee, he meant so be as he got leave. If 'tis true that
he be safe in France----"
"I know he be safe."
Mrs. Yellam glanced at her anxiously. Was the girl light-headed? She
must know that if Alfred were missing, owing--as Fancy had been
discreetly told--to some injury to his head which had caused him to
stray from the British lines, his first steps, when he became himself
again, would be directed back to his battalion. Wisely, she busied
herself about the room, entreating her patient to compose herself to
sleep. Presently Fancy dozed off, and Mrs. Yellam, softly approaching
the bed, examined her critically. She looked startlingly pretty. A faint
colour tinged lips and cheeks; her skin was translucently clear; her
hair, regularly brushed by Mrs. Yellam, lay thick and lustrous above her
forehead.
It was almost impossible to behold her as a widow.
For the first time since she had dedicated all her energies to fighting
for this frail life doubt assailed Mrs. Yellam. Fancy's hand lay upon
the white counterpane. Mrs. Yellam laid her hand beside it and compared
the two.
All her experience of life as it is lived by people who cannot afford
servants, the endless bondage to manual labour, the washing, scrubbing
of floors and pots and pans, the cooking, the mending, rose up in her
ample mind, and filled it with poignant misgiving. Could this attenuated
hand, soft and weak as a child's, fend for Lizzie if--if Death came at
the despairing call of Susan Yellam?
She clenched her own hand, nearly as large and powerful as a man's fist.
Fancy _must_ live to mother her child. She had no claim on Death, this
young, pretty creature, so easily pleased with life, so happy with
simple things, so contented with what she possessed, incapable of
envying those above her in station. Time would be kind to her. Time
would enshrine Alfred in her heart as the man who had taught her to
love, who had given her a fidelity and tenderness rarely found in
cottages or palaces. She might marry again. Why not? It says much for
Susan Yellam's essential wisdom that she could visualise such a
possibility, however remote, without a pang.
A couple of hours passed.
Lizzie Alfreda was fed and washed, with Fancy looking on, and replaced
in her cradle. Mrs. Yellam mended the fire, and went down to the kitchen
to prepare supper. Fancy seemed to be refreshed after her nap, but some
inflection of her voice warned an obstinate old woman that strength was
departing, very slowly, almost imperceptibly, as the hour-hand moves
round the dial.
After supper she took her knitting and sat by the bed. To her great
relief, Fancy never mentioned Alfred. She prattled artlessly about
Lizzie. And then, gradually, during the intermittancies of silence, Mrs.
Yellam knew that the victory, for which she had fought so desperately,
which she had believed to be won, was unachievable. Afterwards, she was
unable to say when this conviction seized her. She admitted, however, to
Uncle that she knew because Fancy must have known. And Fancy believed
that she was cunningly hiding this knowledge. It leaked from her lips,
as she talked about Lizzie Alfreda to her grandmother, conjuring up a
picture of youth ministering to age, a picture so vivid, so true to
life, that something told Susan Yellam that it must come to pass. Fancy
was going. And when her own time came, she would lie in this bed, and
Alfred's child would close her eyes. Fancy foreshadowed no such scene.
But she spoke of Mrs. Yellam teaching Lizzie Alfreda how to use her
needle and instructing her in other domestic tasks. The thought of doing
this, of playing mother in her old age, softened indurated tissues, but
the original hardness remained. Susan turned desperately for comfort to
a flesh-and-blood grandchild; she turned as desperately from any faith
in a wise and merciful God.
Outside, the rain went on falling; the wind wailed through the firs
where the ospreys found sanctuary on their flight south. Solomon slept
comfortably at the foot of the bed. Presently, it became time to prepare
Fancy for the night. Face and hands were washed with soap which Mrs.
Yellam had never applied to her weather-beaten countenance. Fancy's hair
was brushed and plaited in two coils.
"Put on fresh ribands to-night, mother."
"What an idea! You be so vain as any twoad."
"Are toads vain? I'd like blue ribands."
Grumblingly, Mrs. Yellam went to a drawer and produced new ribands. When
she had finished her patient's toilet, she said:
"My! But you look pretty to-night."
"Do I? I'm glad of that."
Lizzie Alfreda woke up, clamouring for Frisian-Holstein milk. She lay
beside Fancy till the bottle was finished. Then she was taken back to
her cradle in the next room.
It was fully time now for Mrs. Yellam to prepare for the night, but she
didn't do so. Fancy had closed her eyes. The faint colour had gone from
her cheeks. She had fallen asleep. Susan laid her finger upon the pulse;
she could just feel it beating, but not regularly. A wild impulse surged
through her to rush into the night, to send Uncle for the doctor. But
she dared not leave her patient. And, after all, there was so little
change; the child had talked too much after tea; strength would return
in the morning.
She made up the fire again, slipped off her austere black gown, and put
on a dressing-gown, an ancient garment known to many mothers in
Nether-Applewhite. Draped in this, with list sandals on her feet, you
might have taken Susan for a Roman matron. Hamlin, who had seen her thus
arrayed, nearly addressed her as "Cornelia."
An hour or more may have passed, during which time the gale began to
rage itself out. Lulls succeeded roaring blasts. Mrs. Yellam felt no
inclination to sleep; she became, instead, sensible of alertness, a
quickening of sensibilities and senses. Her hearing, still acute, became
painfully so. The patter of the rain upon the windows irritated her;
when it stopped, she missed it, and wanted it to begin again.
And then a strange thing happened, strange only when taken in connection
with what followed. Solomon woke up, jumped lightly from the bed, and
went to the door. He had been let out, as usual, some two hours
previously. Mrs. Yellam held up a finger, enjoining silence. Solomon lay
down, head up, staring at the door, alert, as Mrs. Yellam was,
expectant, with ears cocked as if he heard something or somebody.
"What is it, Solly?" she whispered.
He paid no attention.
If the cottage had not been surrounded by water, Mrs. Yellam might have
considered the probability of tramps trying to find shelter in the barn.
She would not have been alarmed. Her cottage was tramp-proof and at this
moment an island fortress. At the same time, she knew that her heart was
beating faster; an indefinable fear assailed her, something she had
never experienced before.
She started violently. Fancy was sitting up in bed, her cheeks flushed
with colour, her eyes dancing, her arms outstretched.
"I hear him," she exclaimed. "Don't you, Mother?"
"Lie down, child; lie down."
"It's Alfred. Let him in!"
Mrs. Yellam did not move. Fancy, she decided, was light-headed. She
hesitated, fearing to excite her, willing to humour her, provided she
made no attempt to leave her bed.
"He's coming upstairs."
She no longer looked at Mrs. Yellam; her eyes remained upon the bedroom
door. So strange a light shone in those eyes that Mrs. Yellam began to
question her own sanity, not Fancy's.
Solomon never moved.
The suspense became unendurable. But Mrs. Yellam remained in her chair,
ready to spring to her feet, if Fancy left the bed.
Solomon got up, whined, turned from the door, and jumped into Mrs.
Yellam's lap. He was trembling. At the same moment she heard Fancy's
voice, strong and exultant:
"Alfie!--I knew you'd come."
Her speech became broken and faltering:
"I did want you, as never was. It was awful going through it without
you. And it's a She--what you wanted. How lovely you look! Kiss me
again! Hold me tight! If you don't, I--I may slip off...."
Her voice died away in sighs; her eyes closed; her head fell back upon
her pillow. Mrs. Yellam put Solomon down, rose to her feet, and hurried
to the bed. In an instant her strong arms were encircling the wasted
body, clutching it to her, trying to hold Fancy back, but knowing that
she was, as she said, slipping away. Fancy spoke again, very faintly:
"However did you manage to come back?"
Mrs. Yellam listened, waiting, hoping, and almost believing, that an
answer would be forthcoming. Her son, according to Colonel Tring, had
been killed by a shell--killed and obliterated. She had known that death
must have been painless.
Fancy answered for Alfred, in a whisper that seemed to come from an
immense distance.
"I hear you, plain as plain. What? A--_shell_--! Did it hurt, Alfie? It
didn't. But because of that you were able to come. You had to come for
both our sakes--Mother's and mine. And such a night! You ain't a bit
wet, neither.... Afraid, Alfie...? With you holding me tight as
tight.... Oh, no."
Susan Yellam heard a trickle of laughter. After that Fancy sighed twice,
and then her small body relaxed.
She had slipped away.
* * * * *
Dawn was stealing into the kitchen when Mrs. Yellam went downstairs.
She was still curiously alert in mind, although very weary in body.
After she had closed Fancy's eyes and performed the last services, she
sat down by the bed to think. Dying people, as she knew, might entertain
hallucinations. And Fancy, in health, exercised a lively imagination.
That she should believe that she saw Alfred, so long and ardently
desired, just before breath left her body, was not remarkable in itself.
But, speaking for Alfred, repeating, as it were, information, Fancy had
used the word "shell."
Was this mere coincidence?
Again, according to Alfred--admitting that he had come back--his return
in the spirit was due not only to solicitude for his wife, but for his
mother. She heard Fancy's feeble voice--"for both our sakes." And she
had spoken of his appearance as "lovely."
Susan Yellam's strong brain considered these three facts together with
the uncanny behaviour of Solomon, now peacefully asleep in the next
room. As yet, she had shed no tears, but, slowly, the ice about her
heart was melting.
Her thoughts turned to the form beneath the spotless sheet. It seemed so
cruel that Fancy should be dead. Why was life given to young things and
then taken away? But this gentle creature had not lived in vain. She had
accomplished a task that had baffled Jane Mucklow and herself. Fancy had
drawn Habakkuk from the ale-house, beguiled him from his cronies with
soft words and smiles, made a better man of him. She had made a better
man of Alfred.
She thought of Alfred and Fancy together.
Almost she believed that Alfred had come back.
Hovering upon the brink of this conviction, she heard a wail from the
baby, the pitiful appeal of helplessness to strength. She hurried into
the next room, and took the child into her arms, clutching it to her
bosom.
Lizzie Alfreda was hers, her very own. Till that moment she had regarded
the tiny creature, not with indifference, but apathetically, a
grandchild by whom she would do her duty. And we know that she had
forced herself to believe that Fancy would live to fend for her own
child. Could so frail a woman have done so properly? If her wish had
been granted, if Death had taken Susan instead of Fancy Yellam, and if
Fancy had risen from her bed an enfeebled, anaemic woman, subject to all
those maladies which wait on physical debility, could she have "fended"
for Lizzie Alfreda?
The ice was melting fast now.
She fed Lizzie Alfreda and replaced her in the cradle, but the baby
still wailed a little, staring at Susan Yellam. She took her up--an
action against her principles--soothed her, and immediately the child
stopped crying. Susan crooned to her a lullaby which she thought she had
forgotten, which had served, long ago, when her own Lizzie was wakeful.
And the simple, droning song brought back, vividly, past pleasures. Age
dropped from her; she became for a moment a young mother anticipating
joyously all that "fending" implied. Soon the child slept.
And then the tears came, washing away ice, doubt, despair, cleansing
anew a humble and contrite heart.
From that undiscovered country, whose existence she had obstinately
denied, a traveller had returned.
After lighting the kitchen fire, Susan Yellam entered the parlour. She
pulled up the blinds and drew the curtains. From her desk, she took a
sharp penknife, and tried its edge upon her thumb. Then, reluctantly, as
if ashamed, she opened the Bible, intending to erase carefully the last
presumptuous entry.
She glanced at it, and a sharp exclamation escaped her trembling lips.
She put on her spectacles and stared, open-mouthed, at the page in front
of her. "Died, December 28th, 1916," was written not, as she had
supposed, against the name of Susan Yellam, but against the name of
Fancy Yellam.
And then she remembered that, in her blind haste to record her own
death, she had forgotten to put on her spectacles.
And the light, at the time, was failing.
The Light was not failing now.
She fell upon her knees, bowing her head over the Book.
Next Sunday she was in her pew.
THE END
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MARY ROBERTS RINEHART
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SEWELL FORD'S STORIES
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
SHORTY McCABE. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.
A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous thinker,
sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way.
SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY.
Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.
Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy with human
nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for
"side-stepping with Shorty."
SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB.
Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.
Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up to
the minute. He aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund,"
and gives joy to all concerned.
SHORTY McCABE'S ODD NUMBERS.
Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.
These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio for
physical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and at
swell yachting parties.
TORCHY. Illus. by Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg.
A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to the
youths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the story of his
experiences.
TRYING OUT TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.
Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in the
previous book.
ON WITH TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.
Torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was," but
that young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart,
which brings about many hilariously funny situations.
TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.
Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary for
the Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and infectious
American slang.
WILT THOU TORCHY. Illus. by F. Snapp and A. W. Brown.
Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West Coast,
in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust and with his
friend's aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt's permission to place
an engagement ring on Vee's finger.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
THE NOVELS OF WINSTON CHURCHILL
THE INSIDE OF THE CUP. Illustrated by Howard Giles.
The Reverend John Hodder is called to a fashionable church in a
middle-western city. He knows little of modern problems and in his
theology is as orthodox as the rich men who control his church could
desire. But the facts of modern life are thrust upon him; an awakening
follows and in the end he works out a solution.
A FAR COUNTRY. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.
This novel is concerned with big problems of the day. As _The Inside of
the Cup_ gets down to the essentials in its discussion of religion, so
_A Far Country_ deals in a story that is intense and dramatic, with
other vital issues confronting the twentieth century.
A MODERN CHRONICLE. Illustrated by J. H. Gardner Soper.
This, Mr. Churchill's first great presentation of the Eternal Feminine,
is throughout a profound study of a fascinating young American woman. It
is frankly a modern love story.
MR. CREWE'S CAREER. Illus. by A. I. Keller and Kinneys.
A new England state is under the political domination of a railway and
Mr. Crewe, a millionaire, seizes a moment when the cause of the people
is being espoused by an ardent young attorney, to further his own
interest in a political way. The daughter of the railway president plays
no small part in the situation.
THE CROSSING. Illustrated by S. Adamson and L. Baylis.
Describing the battle of Fort Moultrie, the blazing of the Kentucky
wilderness, the expedition of Clark and his handful of followers in
Illinois, the beginning of civilization along the Ohio and Mississippi,
and the treasonable schemes against Washington.
CONISTON. Illustrated by Florence Scovel Shinn.
A deft blending of love and politics. A New Englander is the hero, a
crude man who rose to political prominence by his own powers, and then
surrendered all for the love of a woman.
THE CELEBRITY. An episode.
An inimitable bit of comedy describing an interchange of personalities
between a celebrated author and a bicycle salesman. It is the purest,
keenest fun--and is American to the core.
THE CRISIS. Illustrated with scenes from the Photo-Play.
A book that presents the great crisis in our national life with splendid
power and with a sympathy, a sincerity, and a patriotism that are
inspiring.
RICHARD CARVEL. Illustrated by Malcolm Frazer.
An historical novel which gives a real and vivid picture of Colonial
times, and is good, clean, spirited reading in all its phases and
interesting throughout.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
JACK LONDON'S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
JOHN BARLEYCORN. Illustrated by H. T. Dunn.
This remarkable book is a record of the author's own amazing
experiences. This big, brawny world rover, who has been acquainted with
alcohol from boyhood, comes out boldly against John Barleycorn. It is a
string of exciting adventures, yet it forcefully conveys an unforgetable
idea and makes a typical Jack London book.
THE VALLEY OF THE MOON. Frontispiece by George Harper.
The story opens in the city slums where Billy Roberts, teamster and
ex-prize fighter, and Saxon Brown, laundry worker, meet and love and
marry. They tramp from one end of California to the other, and in the
Valley of the Moon find the farm paradise that is to be their salvation.
BURNING DAYLIGHT. Four illustrations.
The story of an adventurer who went to Alaska and laid the foundations
of his fortune before the gold hunters arrived. Bringing his fortunes to
the States he is cheated out of it by a crowd of money kings, and
recovers it only at the muzzle of his gun. He then starts out as a
merciless exploiter on his own account. Finally he takes to drinking and
becomes a picture of degeneration. About this time he falls in love with
his stenographer and wins her heart but not her hand and then--but read
the story!
A SON OF THE SUN. Illustrated by A. O. Fischer and C. W. Ashley.
David Grief was once a light-haired, blue-eyed youth who came from
England to the South Seas in search of adventure. Tanned like a native
and as lithe as a tiger, he became a real son of the sun. The life
appealed to him and he remained and became very wealthy.
THE CALL OF THE WILD. Illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin and Charles
Livingston Bull. Decorations by Charles E. Hooper.
A book of dog adventures as exciting as any man's exploits could be.
Here is excitement to stir the blood and here is picturesque color to
transport the reader to primitive scenes.
THE SEA WOLF. Illustrated by W. J. Aylward.
Told by a man whom Fate suddenly swings from his fastidious life into
the power of the brutal captain of a sealing schooner. A novel of
adventure warmed by a beautiful love episode that every reader will hail
with delight.
WHITE FANG. Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull.
"White Fang" is part dog, part wolf and all brute, living in the frozen
north; he gradually comes under the spell of man's companionship, and
surrenders all at the last in a fight with a bull dog. Thereafter he is
man's loving slave.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY
WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE
HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED.
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.
MAVERICKS.
A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredations
are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. One
of the sweetest love stories ever told.
A TEXAS RANGER.
How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into
the mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of
thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passed
through deadly peril to ultimate happiness.
WYOMING.
In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured the
breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of the
frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor.
RIDGWAY OF MONTANA.
The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics and
mining industries are the religion of the country. The political
contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story
great strength and charm.
BUCKY O'CONNOR.
Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with
the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing
fascination of style and plot.
CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT.
A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter
feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine is a most unusual
woman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittingly
characteristic of the great free West.
BRAND BLOTTERS.
A story of the Cattle Range. This story brings out the turbid life of
the frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming love
interest running through its 320 pages.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
ZANE GREY'S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list
THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS
A New York society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of
frontier warfare. Her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is
captured by bandits. A surprising climax brings the story to a
delightful close.
THE RAINBOW TRAIL
The story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great
western uplands--until at last love and faith awake.
DESERT GOLD
The story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with
the finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who
is the story's heroine.
RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE
A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon
authority ruled. The prosecution of Jane Withersteen is the theme of the
story.
THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN
This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones,
known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert
and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of deep canons and giant
pines."
THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT
A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young
New Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall
become the second wife of one of the Mormons--Well, that's the problem
of this great story.
THE SHORT STOP
The young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and
fortune as a professional ball player. His hard knocks at the start are
followed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty
ought to win.
BETTY ZANE
This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful
young sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers.
THE LONE STAR RANGER
After killing a man in self defense, Buck Duane becomes an outlaw along
the Texas border. In a camp on the Mexican side of the river, he finds a
young girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down
upon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on one
side by honest men, on the other by outlaws.
THE BORDER LEGION
Joan Randle, in a spirit of anger, sent Jim Cleve out to a lawless
Western mining camp, to prove his mettle. Then realizing that she loved
him--she followed him out. On her way, she is captured by a bandit band,
and trouble begins when she shoots Kells, the leader--and nurses him to
health again. Here enters another romance--when Joan, disguised as an
outlaw, observes Jim, in the throes of dissipation. A gold strike, a
thrilling robbery--gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly.
THE LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS, By Helen Cody Wetmore and Zane Grey
The life story of Colonel William F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill," as told by
his sister and Zane Grey. It begins with his boyhood in Iowa and his
first encounter with an Indian. We see "Bill" as a pony express rider,
then near Fort Sumter as Chief of the Scouts, and later engaged in the
most dangerous Indian campaigns. There is also a very interesting
account of the travels of "The Wild West" Show. No character in public
life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of America than "Buffalo
Bill," whose daring and bravery made him famous.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY
GENE STRATTON-PORTER
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
MICHAEL O'HALLORAN. Illustrated by Frances Rogers.
Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in Northern
Indiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also assumes
the responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward and
onward.
LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.
This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The story
is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it
is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs
of older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie and
the Princess, an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhood
and about whose family there hangs a mystery.
THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs.
"The Harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book had
nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable.
But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," there begins a romance
of the rarest idyllic quality.
FRECKLES. Illustrated.
Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he
takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great
Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to
the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "The
Angel" are full of real sentiment.
A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated.
The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type of
the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness
towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty of
her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and
unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage.
AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors.
The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. The
story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love.
The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and
its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all.
THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL. Profusely illustrated.
A love idea of the Cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy and
humor.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
MYRTLE REED'S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.
LAVENDER AND OLD LACE.
A charming story of a quaint corner of New England, where bygone romance
finds a modern parallel. The story centers round the coming of love to
the young people on the staff of a newspaper--and it is one of the
prettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old-fashioned love stories.
MASTER OF THE VINEYARD.
A pathetic love story of a young girl, Rosemary. The teacher of the
country school, who is also master of the vineyard, comes to know her
through her desire for books. She is happy in his love till another
woman comes into his life. But happiness and emancipation from her many
trials come to Rosemary at last. The book has a touch of humor and
pathos that will appeal to every reader.
OLD ROSE AND SILVER.
A love story,--sentimental and humorous,--with the plot subordinate to
the character delineation of its quaint people and to the exquisite
descriptions of picturesque spots and of lovely, old, rare treasures.
A WEAVER OF DREAMS.
This story tells of the love-affairs of three young people, with an
old-fashioned romance in the background. A tiny dog plays an important
role in serving as a foil for the heroine's talking ingeniousness. There
is poetry, as well as tenderness and charm, in this tale of a weaver of
dreams.
A SPINNER IN THE SUN.
An old-fashioned love story, of a veiled lady who lives in solitude and
whose features her neighbors have never seen. There is a mystery at the
heart of the book that throws over it the glamour of romance.
THE MASTER'S VIOLIN.
A love story in a musical atmosphere. A picturesque, old German virtuoso
consents to take for his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have an
aptitude for technique, but not the soul of an artist. The youth cannot
express the love, the passion and the tragedies of life as can the
master. But a girl comes into his life, and through his passionate love
for her, he learns the lessons that life has to give--and his soul
awakes.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Punctuation has been made consistent.
Dialect, alternate and obsolete spellings were not changed.
Words ending in '-ise' and '-sing' instead of the more usual '-ize'
and '-zing' were not changed, e.g. apologise instead of apologize.
Changes made for consistency within the text:
deleted hyphen in 'offertory-plate'
... copper to the offertory plate....
deleted hyphen in 'parlour-maid'
... Mr. Hamlin's new parlourmaid ...
... from the new parlourmaid ...
'pollygammy' to 'polligammy'
... that pretty pass, polligammy....
added hyphen to ale-house
... seen some nice lil' ale-house ...
... takes a man to the ale-house?...
... drive a man to the ale-house ...
added hyphen to back yard
... out o' sight in my back-yard."
deleted hyphen in 'country-side'
... William Saint scoured the countryside ...
Other changes to text:
'monagenarian' to 'nonagenarian' ... The nonagenarian displayed ...
'omniverously' to 'omnivorously' ... the Parson read omnivorously...
'Nomconformists' to 'Nonconformists' ... the Nonconformists gird ...
'pallour' to 'pallor' ... seeming pallor in the ill-lit room ...
'mind' to 'mine' ... I wouldn't let him black mine....
'exigesis' to 'exegesis' ... merely Biblical exegesis ...
'fine' to 'time' ...In time, if Alfred donned khaki ...
'sentenously' to 'sententiously' ... remarked sententiously that ...
'immeasureably' to 'immeasurably' ... immeasurably multiplied ...
'telgram' to 'telegram' ... what was in the telegram,...
deleted hyphen from 'middle-class' ... for middle class trippers ...