A long silence followed. Neither of them, perhaps, realised exactly
what had passed, or if they did, actual facts seemed very far away from
their dreamland. Marion was the first to feel again the horror of the
situation, tenfold worse than before he had last spoken.
"Oh, I cannot bear it!" she said suddenly. "I cannot bear it now--as I
could. Really alive, after all--and this story to-day? Have you found
out nothing? Have you nothing more to tell me?"
"Yes, there is something to tell you."
"What?"
"Bad news."
"Bad? Worse than--"
"I am afraid so," answered Brett.
"You have told me that he is alive." She laid her hand upon his arm.
"Do not tell me that he is here! You said you could not believe it!"
"If I do not, it is only because I have not seen him with my own eyes.
I did not mean to tell you--until--" he stopped.
"Tell me!" cried Marion. "Tell me everything quickly! If you tell me--I
can bear it, if you tell me--but not from any one else. Where is he?
When did he come? Is he arrested again? Is he in prison?"
"No, not yet. He is in a sailors' lodging-house--if it is he."
"How do you know it? Oh, how can you be so sure, if you have not seen
him?"
"None of us have seen him," answered Brett, barely able to speak at
all. "Vanbrugh and Brown--they went to find him--I found Brown in
Mulberry Street, waiting for news--you know the Police Headquarters are
there. Vanbrugh had left him--then I came up town again--to you."
"Russell Vanbrugh has been here," said Marion, trying to collect her
thoughts. "He told Cousin Annie to give strict orders about reporters."
"He was afraid that Darche might come to try and get money from you--"
"Money! I would give--God knows what I would give."
"I do not believe he will come," said Brett, assuming a confidence he
did not feel. "He must know that the house is watched already."
Marion's expression changed. Her face turned paler. The lines deepened
and her eyes grew dark. She had made a desperate resolution. She took
Brett's hand and looked at him in silence for a moment.
"Good-bye--dear," she said.
She would have withdrawn her hand, but Brett grasped it and pressed it
almost roughly to his lips.
"Good-bye," she said again.
It was almost too much to ask of any man. Brett held her hand fast.
"No--not good-bye," he answered with rising passion. "It is not
possible. It cannot be, Marion--do not say it."
"I must--you must."
"No--no--no!" he repeated. "It cannot be good-bye. Remember what you
said. Is this man who was dead to you and to all the world, if not to
me, to ruin both our lives? Are we to bow our heads and submit
patiently to such a fate as that? If I had told you long ago that he
was alive, as I alone knew he was, would you not have done your best to
free yourself from such a tie, from a man--you said it yourself--whose
very name is a stain, and whose mere memory is a disgrace?"
"No," answered Marion resolutely, and withdrawing her hands. "I mean
it. This is our good-bye, and this must be all, quite all. Do you think
I would ever accept such a position as that? That I could ever feel as
though the stain were wiped out and the disgrace forgotten by such a
poor formality as a divorce? No! Let me speak! Do not interrupt me yet.
If I had known six months ago that John was still alive, I would have
done it, and I should have felt perhaps, that it meant something, that
I was really free, that the world would forget the worst part of my
story, and that I could come to you as myself, not as the wife of John
Darche, forger and escaped convict. But I cannot do it now. It is too
late, now that he has come back. No power on earth can detach his past
from my present, nor clear me of his name. And do you think that I
would hang such a weight as that about your neck?"
"But you are wrong," answered Brett, earnestly. "Altogether wrong. The
life you have lived during these last months has proved that. Have you
ever heard that any one in all the world you know has--I will not say
dared--has even thought of visiting on you the smallest particle of
your husband's guilt? Oh, no! They say the world is unkind, but it is
just in the long run."
"No. People have been kind to me--"
"No. Just, not kind."
"Well, call it what you will," Marion answered, speaking in a dull tone
which had no resonance. "People have overlooked my name and liked me
for myself. But it is different now. A few good friends may still come,
the nearest and dearest may stand by me, but the world will not accept
without a murmur the man who has married the divorced wife of a
convict. The world will do much, but it will not do that. And so I say
good-bye again," she continued after a little pause, "once more this
last time, for I will not hamper you, I will not be a load upon you. I
will not live to give you children who may reproach you for their
mother's sake. We shall be what we were--friends. But, for the
rest--good-bye!"
"Marion! Do not say such things!"
"I will, and I must say them now, for I will not give myself another
chance," she answered with unmoved determination. "What has been, has
been, and cannot be undone. I did wrong months ago on that dreadful
morning, when I let you guess that I might love you. I did wrong on
that same day, when I prayed you for my sake to help John to escape,
when I made use of your love for me, to make you do the one
dishonourable action of your life. I have suffered for it. Better, far
better, that my husband should have gone then and submitted to his
sentence, than that I should have helped him--made you help me--"
"At the risk of your own life," said Brett, interrupting her.
"There was no risk at all, with you all there to help me, and I knew
it."
"There was," said Brett, insisting. "You might have burned to death.
And as for what I did, I hardly knew that I was doing it. I saw that
you were really on fire and I ran to help you. No one ever thought of
holding me responsible for what happened when my back was turned. But
I would have done more, and you know I would. And now you talk of
injuring me, if you divorce that man and let me take your life into
mine! This is folly, Marion, this is downright madness!"
Marion looked at him in silence for a moment.
"Harry, would you do it in my place?" she asked suddenly.
"What?"
"If your wife had forged, had been convicted, and sentenced, and you
had the public disgrace of it to bear, would you wish to give me your
name?"
Brett opened his lips to speak, and then checked himself and turned
away.
"You see!" she exclaimed, still watching him.
"No, that would be different," he said at last in a low voice.
"Why different? I see no difference at all. Of course you must say so,
any man would in your place. But that does not make it a fact. You
would rather cut off your right hand than ask me to marry you with such
a stain on your good name. You can have nothing to answer to that, for
it is hard logic and you know it."
"Call it logic, if you will," he answered coming up to her. "It does
not convince me. And I will tell you more. I will not yield. I would
not be persuaded if I knew that I could be, for I will convince you, I
will persuade you that the real wrong and the only wrong is whatever
parts a man and a woman who love as we love; who are ready, as you know
we are ready, to give all that man and woman can, each for the other,
and who will give it, each to the other, in spite of everything, as I
will give you my life and my name and everything I have before I die,
whether you will have it or not!"
"If I say that I will not accept such a sacrifice, what then?"
"You will accept it," said Brett in a tone of authority.
"Ah, but I will not! Harry!" cried Marion, with a sudden change of
voice, "I know that all you say is true. I know how generous you are,
that you would really do all you say you would. I need not say that I
thank you. That would mean too little. But I will not take from you
one-thousandth part of what you offer. I will not taint your life with
mine. You could not answer my question. You could not deny what I
said--that if you were in my place, you would suffer anything rather
than ask me to marry you. I know--you say it is different--but it is
not. Disgrace is just as real from woman to man as from man to woman,
and you shall not have it from me nor through me. That is why I say
good-bye. That is why you must say it too--for my sake."
"For your sake?"
"Yes," she answered. "Do you think that I could ever be happy again? Do
you not see that if I married you now, I should be haunted through
every minute of my life by the bitter presence of the wrong done you?
Do you not know what I should feel if people looked askance at you, and
grew cold in their acquaintance, and smiled to each other when you went
by? Do you think that would be easy to bear? Yes, it is good-bye for
my sake, as well as yours. Not lightly--you know it. It means good-bye
to love, and hope, and if I live, it means the loss of freedom, too,
when John Darche is released from prison."
"What!" cried Brett. "Do you mean to say that you would ever let him
come back to you?"
"I mean that I will not be divorced. And he would come back to me--he
will come back for help, and I must give it to him when he does."
"Receive that man under your roof!" He could not believe that she was
in earnest.
"Yes. Since he is alive he is still my husband. When he comes back
after undergoing his sentence I shall have to receive him."
"When you know that you could have a divorce for the asking?"
"Which I would refuse if it were thrust upon me," she answered firmly.
"That would be mad indeed. What can that possibly have to do with me?"
"This," she said. "We are speaking this last time. I will not be
divorced from him; do you know why? Because if I were--if I were
free--I should be weak, and marry you. Do you understand now? Try and
understand me, for I shall not say it again--it is too hard to say."
"Not so hard as it is to believe."
"But you will try, will you not?"
"No."
The monosyllable had scarcely escaped from his lips, short, energetic
and determined, when he was interrupted by Stubbs, who seemed destined
to appear at inopportune moments on that day. He was evidently much
excited, and he stood stock still by the door. At the same time there
was a noise outside, of many feet and of subdued voices. Stubbs made
desperate gestures.
"Mr. Brett, sir! Will you please come outside, sir!" He was hardly able
to make himself understood.
"What is the matter?" asked Marion, severely.
"I cannot help it, sir! Indeed I cannot, Madam!" protested the
distressed butler.
Brett understood.
"There is trouble," he said quickly to Marion, holding out his hands as
though he wished to protect her, and touching her gently. "Please go
away. Leave me here."
"Trouble?" She was not inclined to yield.
"Yes. It must be he--if you have to see him, this is not the place."
"But--"
With his hands, very tenderly, he pushed her toward the door at the
other end of the room, the same through which John Darche had once
escaped. She resisted for a moment--then without a word she obeyed his
word and touch and went out, covering her eyes with her hand.
"Now then, what is it?" asked Brett, turning sharply around as he
closed the door.
"I could not help it, sir!" Stubbs repeated. "There is a man in the
hall as says he is Mr. John--leastwise he says his name is John Darche,
though he has got a beard, sir, which Mr. John never had, as you may
remember, sir, and there is a lot of policemen in plain clothes and
otherwise, and Mr. Brown says they are pressmen, and the driver of the
cab, and Michael Curly, and the expressman--"
"What do all these people want?" inquired Brett, sternly. "Turn them
out."
"It is a fact, sir, just as I tell you--and so help me the powers, sir,
here they are coming in and I cannot keep them out--I cannot, not if I
was a dozen Stubbses!"
Before he had finished speaking, a number of men had pushed past him
into the room, led by Mr. Brown, very much out of breath and trying his
best to control the storm he had raised.
"What is this disturbance, Brown?" asked Brett angrily. "Who are these
people?"
"It is the man, Brett!" cried Mr. Brown triumphantly, and pushing
forward a burly and bearded individual in a shabby "guernsey" with a
black rag tied in a knot round his neck. "Now just look at him, and
tell me whether he has the slightest resemblance to John Darche."
"He is no more John Darche than I am! Take him away!"
"Out with you!" cried Stubbs, only too anxious to enforce the order.
"He said he was John Darche," said one of the men from Mulberry Street.
The man refused to be turned out by Stubbs and stood his ground,
evidently anxious to clear himself. He was an honest-looking fellow
enough, and there was a twinkle in his bright blue eyes as though he
were by no means scared, but rather enjoyed the hubbub his presence
created.
"No, sir," he said in a healthy voice that dominated the rest. "I am no
more John Darche than you are, sir, unless that happens to be your
name, which I ask your pardon if it is. But I said I was, and so the
bobbies brought me along. But this gentleman here, he showed me the
papers, that there was trouble about John Darche, so I just let them
bring me, which I had no call to do, barring I liked, being a sailor
man and quick on my feet."
"Well then, who are you?" asked Brett. "And where is John Darche?"
"John Darche is dead, sir, and I buried him on the Patagonian shore."
"Dead?" cried Brett. The colour rushed to his face, and for a moment
the room swam with him. "Can you prove that, my man?"
"Well, sir, I say he is dead, because I saw him die and buried
him--just so, as I was telling you."
This was more than Stubbs could bear in his present humour.
"Dead, is he? Mr. John's dead, is he? This man says he is dead, and he
comes here saying as he is him."
"Be quiet, Stubbs," said Brett. "Tell your story, my man, and be quick
about it," he added.
"Yes, sir," said the man, taking his hands from his pockets, and
standing squarely before Brett. "That is what I came to do if these
sons of guns will let me talk. John Darche was working his passage as
cook, sir, and we was wrecked down Magellan way, and some was drowned,
poor fellows, and some was taken off, worse luck for us. But I said I
would stick to the ship if Darche would, and we should get salvage
money. We had not much of a name to lose, either of us, so we tried it,
but the cook was not much to boast of for a sailor man, and we could
not bring her through, and she went to pieces on the Patagonian shore.
The cook, that was John Darche, he caught his death, what with too much
salt water, and too little to eat, and died two days after we got
ashore. So I buried him. And seeing as my own name wan't of much use
to me, being well known about those parts for a trifle of braining a
South American devil in Buenos Ayres, I took his, which wan't no more
use to him neither, and somehow or other I got here, by the help of
Almighty God and an Eyetalian captain, and working my passage and
eating their blooming boiled paste. And I soon found out what sort of a
name I had taken from my dead mate, for he seems to have been pretty
well known to these here gentlemen. But I daresay as you can swear,
sir, that I ain't John Darche he as you knew, and maybe as I ain't
wanted on my own account, these gentlemen will come and have a drink
with me and call quits."
"Have you got anything to prove this story?" Brett asked, when the man
had finished.
"Well, sir, there's myself to prove it," said the sailor. "I don't know
that I should care for more proof. And there's my dead mate's watch,
too. He had a watch, he had. He was a regular swell though he was
working his passage as cook. But I had to leave it with my uncle this
morning."
Brett drew a long breath and clasped his hands nervously together.
"I suppose you can set this man at liberty, upon my declaration that he
is not John Darche, and after hearing his story," he said, turning to
the police officer who stood near the sailor.
"Oh yes, sir," answered the latter. "I guess that will be all right. If
not, we'll make it right in five minutes."
"Well then, I must ask you to go away for the present--and as quickly
as possible. Take that with you, my man, and come and see me to-morrow
morning. My name is Brett. The butler will write my address for you."
"I don't want your money, sir," said the sailor.
"Oh yes, you do," answered Brett, with a good-humoured smile. "Go and
get your watch out of pawn and bring it with you."
"Very well, sir," said the sailor.
As they were going out, it struck Brett that he perhaps owed something
to Mr. Brown who, after all, had taken a great deal of trouble in the
matter.
"Mrs. Darche will be very much obliged to you, Brown," he said. "But I
am not sure that the matter is ended. It would be awfully good of you
to put the thing through, while I break the news to Mrs. Darche. Could
you not go along with them and see that the man is really set at
liberty?"
Mr. Brown was a good-natured man, and was quite ready to do all that
was asked of him. Brett thanked him once more, and he left the house
with the rest.
When they were all gone, Stubbs came back, evidently very much relieved
at the turn matters had taken.
"Please go into the drawing-room," said Brett, "and ask Mrs. Darche to
come here one moment, if she can speak to me alone, and keep every one
else out of the room. You understand, Stubbs."
"Yes, sir," answered the butler. "But it is the Lord's own mercy, sir,
especially the watch." He left the room in search of Mrs. Darche.
Scarcely a moment elapsed before she entered the room.
"Stubbs said you wanted to see me," she said in a voice that shook with
anxiety.
Brett came forward to meet her, and standing quite close to her, looked
into her eyes.
"Something very strange has happened," he said, with a little
hesitation. "Something--something very, very good--can you bear the
shock of a great happiness, dear?"
"Happiness," she repeated. "What is it? Oh, yes!" she exclaimed,
suddenly understanding. "Oh! thank God, I see it in your eyes! It is
not true? He is not here?--oh, Harry!"
"Yes. That is it. The whole story was only a fabrication. He is not
here. You see I cannot let you wait a moment for the good news. It is
so good. So much better even than I have told you."
"Better!" she cried as the colour rose to her pale cheeks. "What could
be better? Oh, it is life, it is freedom--it is almost more than I can
bear after this dreadful day!"
"But you must bear more," said Brett, smiling.
"More pain?" she asked with a little start. "Something else?"
"No. More happiness."
"Ah, no! There is no more!"
"Yes there is. Listen. There is a reason why the story could not be
true, why it is absolutely impossible that it should be true."
"Impossible?" She looked up suddenly. "You cannot say that."
"Yes I can," he answered. "We have seen the last of John Darche. He
will never come back."
"Never?" cried Marion. "Never at all? What do you mean?"
"Never, in this world," Brett answered gravely.
She seized his arm with sudden energy and looked into his face.
"What? No--it cannot be true! Oh, do not deceive me, for the love of
Heaven!"
"John Darche is dead."
"Dead!" In the pause that followed, she pressed her hand to her side as
though she could not draw breath.
"Oh! no! no--it cannot be true. It is another story. Oh, why did you
tell me?"
"It is true. The man who was with him when he died was here a moment
ago."
"Ah, you were right," she said faintly. "It is almost too much."
Brett's arm went round her and drew her towards him.
"No," he answered, speaking gently in her ear, "not too much for you
and me to bear together. Think of all that has died with him--think of
all the horror and misery and danger and fear that he has taken out of
the world with him. Think that there is nothing now between you and me.
Nothing--not the shadow of a nothing. That our lives are our own now,
and each the other's, yours mine, mine yours, forever and always. Ah,
Marion, dear, is that too much to bear?"
"Almost," she said as her head sank upon his shoulder. "Ah, God! that
hell and heaven should be so near."
"And such a heaven! Love! Darling! Sweetheart! Look at me!"
"Harry!" She opened her eyes. "Love! No--find me other words for all
you are to me."
She drew his face down to hers and their lips met.
THE END.
* * * * *
LIST OF WORKS
BY
MR. F. MARION CRAWFORD.
* * * * *
IN THE PRESS. A NEW NOVEL.
PIETRO GHISLERI.
12mo, cloth, $1.00. In the uniform edition of Mr. Crawford's Novels.
* * * * *
THE NOVEL. WHAT IT IS.
By F. MARION CRAWFORD, author of "Children of the King," "Saracinesca,"
etc., etc. Uniform with the pocket edition of William Winter's Works.
With photogravure portrait. 18mo, cloth, 75 cents.
*.* Also a large-paper limited edition. 12mo, $2.00.
"Mr. Crawford in the course of this readable little essay touches upon
such topics as realism and romanticism, the use of dialect, the abuse
of scientific information, the defects of historical fiction. Mr.
Crawford's discussion of what does and what does not constitute the
novel will be read with eager interest by the large company of his
sincere admirers in this country."--_Beacon._
* * * * *
CHILDREN OF THE KING.
A Tale of Southern Italy. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.
"A sympathetic reader cannot fail to be impressed with the dramatic
power of this story. The simplicity of nature, the uncorrupted truth of
a soul, have been portrayed by a master-hand. The suddenness of the
unforeseen tragedy at the last renders the incident of the story
powerful beyond description. One can only feel such sensations as the
last scene of the story incites. It may be added that if Mr. Crawford
has written some stories unevenly, he has made no mistakes in the
stories of Italian life. A reader of them cannot fail to gain a
clearer, fuller acquaintance with the Italians and the artistic spirit
that pervades the country."--M. L. B. in _Syracuse Journal_.
* * * * *
MACMILLAN & CO. take pleasure in announcing that they have added the
following volumes (with the author's latest revisions) to their uniform
edition of the Works of Mr. F. Marion Crawford, thereby enabling them
to issue a complete edition of all his novels:
A ROMAN SINGER. New Edition, revised and corrected. TO LEEWARD. PAUL
PATOFF. AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN. New Edition, revised and partly
rewritten.
* * * * *
F. MARION CRAWFORD'S NOVELS
NEW UNIFORM AND COMPLETE EDITION.
=12mo, cloth. Price $1.00 each.=
"Mr. F. Marion Crawford is," as Mr. Andrew Lang says, "the most
'versatile and various' of modern novelists. He has great adaptability
and subtleness of mind, and whether dealing with life in modern Rome or
at the court of Darius at Shushan, in the wilds of India or in the
fashionable quarter of New York, in the Black Forest or in a lonely
parish of rural England, he is equally facile and sure of his ground; a
master of narrative style, he throws a subtle charm over all he
touches."
* * * * *
TO BE PUBLISHED IN JUNE:
PIETRO GHISLERI.
=Children of the King.=
=Don Orsino=, A sequel to "Saracinesca" and "Sant' Ilario."
=The Three Fates.=
=The Witch of Prague.=
=Khaled.=
=A Cigarette-maker's Romance.=
=Sant' Ilario=, A sequel to "Saracinesca."
=Greifenstein.=
=With the Immortals.=
=To Leeward.=
=A Roman Singer.=
=An American Politician.=
=Paul Patoff.=
=Marzio's Crucifix.=
=Saracinesca.=
=A Tale of a Lonely Parish.=
=Zoroaster.=
=Dr. Claudius.=
=Mr. Isaacs.=
* * * * *
F. MARION CRAWFORD'S NOVELS.
12MO. BOUND IN CLOTH.
WITH THE IMMORTALS.
Price, $2.00.
Altogether an admirable piece of art worked in the spirit of a thorough
artist. Every reader of cultivated tastes will find it a book prolific
in entertainment of the most refined description, and to all such we
commend it heartily.--_Boston Saturday Evening Gazette._
GREIFENSTEIN.
Price, $1.50.
"Greifenstein" is a remarkable novel, and while it illustrates once
more the author's unusual versatility, it also shows that he has not
been tempted into careless writing by the vogue of his earlier
books.... There is nothing weak or small or frivolous in the story. The
author deals with tremendous passions working at the height of their
energy. His characters are stern, rugged, determined men and women,
governed by powerful prejudices and iron conventions, types of a
military people, in whom the sense of duty has been cultivated until it
dominates all other motives, and in whom the principle of "noblesse
oblige" is so far as the aristocratic class is concerned, the
fundamental rule of conduct. What such people may be capable of is
startlingly shown.--_New York Tribune._
SANT' ILARIO.
_A SEQUEL TO "SARACINESCA."_
Price, $1.50.
The author shows steady and constant improvement in his art. "Sant'
Ilario" is a continuation of the chronicles of the Saracinesca
family.... A singularly powerful and beautiful story.... Admirably
developed, with a naturalness beyond praise.... It must rank with
"Greifenstein" as the best work the author has produced. It fulfils
every requirement of artistic fiction. It brings out what is most
impressive in human action, without owing any of its effectiveness to
sensationalism or artifice. It is natural, fluent in evolution,
accordant with experience graphic in description, penetrating in
analysis, and absorbing in interest.--_New York Tribune._
A CIGARETTE-MAKER'S ROMANCE.
Price, $1.25.
It is a touching romance, filled with scenes of great dramatic
power.--_Boston Commercial Bulletin._
It is full of life and movement, and is one of the best of Mr.
Crawford's books.--_Boston Saturday Evening Gazette._
The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has Mr. Crawford done more
brilliant realistic work than here. But his realism is only the case
and cover for those intense feelings which, placed under no matter what
humble conditions, produce the most dramatic and the most tragic
situations.... This is a secret of genius, to take the most coarse and
common material, the meanest surroundings, the most sordid material
prospects, and out of the vehement passions which sometimes dominate
all human beings to build up with these poor elements scenes and
passages, the dramatic and emotional power of which at once enforce
attention and awaken the profoundest interest.--_New York Tribune._
MR. ISAACS.
A Tale of Modern India. Price, $1.50.
If considered only as a semi-love story it is exceptionally
fascinating, but when judged as a literary effort it is truly
great.--_Home Journal._
Under an unpretentious title we have here the most brilliant novel, or
rather romance, that has been given to the world for a very long
time.--_The American._
No story of human experience that we have met with since "John
Inglesant" has such an effect of transporting the reader into regions
differing from his own. "Mr. Isaacs" is the best novel that has ever
laid its scenes in our Indian dominions.--_The Daily News._
A work of unusual ability.... It fully deserves the notice it is sure
to attract.--_The Athenaeum._
A story of remarkable freshness and promise, displaying exceptional
gifts of imagination.--_The Academy._
DR. CLAUDIUS.
A True Story. Price, $1.50.
An interesting and attractive story, and in some directions a positive
advance upon "Mr. Isaacs."--_New York Tribune._
"Dr. Claudius" is surprisingly good, coming after a story of so much
merit as "Mr. Isaacs." The hero is a magnificent specimen of humanity,
and sympathetic readers will be fascinated by his chivalrous wooing of
the beautiful American countess.--_Boston Traveller._
ZOROASTER.
Price, $1.50.
The novel opens with a magnificent description of the march of the
Babylonian court to Belshazzar's feast, with the sudden and awful
ending of the latter by the marvelous writing on the wall which Daniel
is called to interpret. From that point the story moves on in a series
of grand and dramatic scenes and incidents which will not fail to hold
the reader fascinated and spell-bound to the end.--_Christian at Work._
The field of Mr. Crawford's imagination appears to be unbounded.... In
"Zoroaster" Mr. Crawford's winged fancy ventures a daring flight....
Yet "Zoroaster" is a novel rather than a drama. It is a drama in the
force of its situations and in the poetry and dignity of its language,
but its men and women are not men and women of a play. By the
naturalness of their conversation and behavior they seem to live and
lay hold of our human sympathy more than the same characters on a stage
could possibly do.--_The Times._
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH.
Price, $1.50.
It is a pleasure to have anything so perfect of its kind as this brief
and vivid story.... It is doubly a success, being full of human
sympathy, as well as thoroughly artistic in its nice balancing of the
unusual with the commonplace, the clever juxtaposition of innocence and
guilt, comedy and tragedy, simplicity and intrigue.--_Critic._
SARACINESCA.
Price, $1.50.
His highest achievement, as yet, in the realms of fiction. The work has
two distinct merits, either of which would serve to make it
great,--that of telling a perfect story in a perfect way, and of giving
a graphic picture of Roman society in the last days of the Pope's
temporal power.... The story is exquisitely told.--_Boston Traveller._
One of the most engrossing novels we have ever read.--_Boston Times._
MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX.
Price, $1.50.
Now this is brought out in this little story with the firmness of
touch, a power and skill which belong to the first rank in art.... We
take the liberty of saying that this work belongs to the highest
department of character painting in words.--_Churchman._
"Marzio's Crucifix" is another of those tales of modern Rome which show
the author so much at his ease. A subtle compound of artistic feeling,
avarice, malice, and criminal frenzy is this carver of silver chalices
and crucifixes.--_The Times._
THE WITCH OF PRAGUE.
_A FANTASTIC TALE._
With numerous Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY.
Price, $1.00.
"The Witch of Prague" is so remarkable a book as to be certain of as
wide a popularity as any of its predecessors. The keenest interest for
most readers will lie in its demonstration of the latest revelations of
hypnotic science.... But "The Witch of Prague" is not merely a striking
exposition of the far-reaching possibilities of a new science; it is a
romance of singular daring and power.--_London Academy._
KHALED:
_A TALE OF ARABIA._
Price, $1.25.
The story is powerful; it is pervaded by fine poetic feeling, is
picturesque to a remarkable degree, and the local color is
extraordinary in its force and truth. Of the many admirable
contributions to the literature of fiction that Mr. Crawford has made,
this book is, on the whole, the most artistic in construction and
finish, and the thorough artist is apparent at every stage of the
story. His plot is intensely dramatic, but he has never permitted it to
sway him to the extent of slighting any of the more minute details
under the impulse of merely telling what he has to tell. He holds his
theme firmly in hand and controls instead of being controlled by it.
The characters have been drawn with the greatest care and stand out in
bold relief and fine contrast. The atmosphere of the East is in every
page, in every utterance.--_Boston Saturday Evening Gazette._
Throughout the fascinating story runs the subtlest analysis, suggested
rather than elaborately worked out, of human passion and motive, the
building out and development of the character of the woman who becomes
the hero's wife and whose love he finally wins being an especially
acute and highly-finished example of the story-teller's art.... That it
is beautifully written and holds the interest of the reader, fanciful
as it all is, to the very end, none who know the depth and artistic
finish of Mr. Crawford's work need be told.--_The Chicago Times._
MACMILLAN & CO.,
112 FOURTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
Transcriber's notes:
Head-quarters and headquarters each used once, retained.
p. 110: Original shows-- I am really much more grateful then I seem.>
Inconsistent with other uses of "then" and "than" in the text. Changed
to "than".
p. 131: Original shows-- I can never look any one in the face again. "Look
at me, please," she said > double-quote before Look removed.
p. 168: Original shows-- "I! Forgery The man is mad!" > Added "?" after
forgery.
p. 311: Original shows-- pocket edition of Willian Winter's Works >
Verified typo, changed to William.
p. 314, 315, 316, header "F. MARION CRAWFORD'S NOVELS. 12MO. BOUND IN
CLOTH." at top of each page removed. Retained on p. 313 (beginning of
section) only.
p. 311, 312, 313, 314,315, footer of "MACMILLAN & CO.,112 FOURTH
AVENUE, NEW YORK." at bottom of each page removed. Retained on p. 316
(last page) only.