LIKE A TALE THAT IS TOLD.
Pamela’s wedding was one of the most successful functions of the London
season; and the society papers described the ceremony with a fulness
of detail which satisfied even the bride’s avidity for social fame.
Mr. Smithson sent her gown just an hour before it had to make its
reverence before the altar in the Abbey; and Pamela, who had been in an
almost hysterical agony for an hour-and-a-half, lest she should have
no gown in which to be married, owned, as she pirouetted before the
chevalglass, that the fit was worth the suspense.
The ladies who write fashion articles in the two social arbiters
were rapturous about Mr. Smithson’s _chef-d’œuvre_, and gave glowing
accounts of certain trousseau gowns which they had been privileged
to review at an afternoon tea in Grosvenor Gardens a week before the
event. Pamela’s delight in these paragraphs was intensified by the
idea that César Castellani would read them, though it is hardly likely
that listless skimmer of modern literature went so deep as fashion
articles.
“He will see at least that if he had married me he would not have
married quite a nobody,” said Pamela, in a summer reverie upon the blue
water in front of The Hook, where she and her husband dawdled about in
a punt nearly all day, expatiating upon each other’s merits. And so
floats this light bark gaily into a safe and placid haven, out of reach
of privateer or pirate such as the incomparable Castellani.
* * * * *
It was not until after Pamela’s wedding, and nearly a month after
Mildred’s discovery of the letters in the bookcase, that Miss Fausset
made any sign; but one August morning her reply came in the shape of a
letter, entreating Mildred to go to her, as an act of charity to one
whose sands had nearly run out.
“I will not sue to you _in formâ pauperis_,” she wrote, “so I do not
pretend that I am a dying woman; but I believe I have not very long
to live, and before my voice is mute upon earth I want to tell you
the history of one year of my girlhood. I want you to know that I am
not altogether the kind of sinner you may think me. I will not write
that history, and if you refuse to come to me, I must die and leave it
untold, and in that case my death-bed will be miserable.”
Mildred’s gentle heart could not harden itself against such an appeal
as this. She told her husband only that her aunt was very ill and
ardently desired to see her; and after some discussion it was arranged
that she should travel quietly to Brighton, he going with her. He
suggested that they should stop in Miss Fausset’s house for a night or
two, but Mildred told him she would much prefer to stay at an hotel; so
it was decided that they should put up at the quiet hotel on the East
Cliff, where Mr. Greswold had taken Pamela nearly a year before.
Mildred’s health had improved under the physician’s _régime_; and her
husband felt hopeful as they travelled together through the summer
landscape, by that line which she had travelled in her desolation—the
level landscape with glimpses of blue sea and stretches of gray beach
or yellow sand, bright in the August noontide.
George Greswold had respected Mildred’s reserve, and had never urged
her to enlighten him as to the secret of his first wife’s parentage;
but he had his ideas upon the subject, and, remembering his interview
with the solicitor and that gentleman’s perturbation at the name of
Fausset, he was inclined to think that the pious lady of Lewes Crescent
might not be unconcerned in the mystery. And now this summons to
Brighton seemed to confirm his suspicions.
He went no further than Miss Fausset’s threshold, and allowed his wife
to go to her aunt alone.
“I shall walk up and down and wait till you come out again,” he said,
“so I hope that you won’t stay too long.”
He was anxious to limit an interview which might involve agitation for
Mildred. He parted from her almost reluctantly at the doorway of the
gloomy house, with its entrance-hall of the pattern of forty years
ago, furnished with barometer, umbrella-stand, and tall chairs, all
in Spanish mahogany, and with never a picture or a bust, bronze or
porcelain, to give light and colour to the scene.
Miss Fausset had changed for the worse even in the brief interval since
Mildred had last seen her. She was sitting in the back drawing-room as
usual, but her table and chair had been wheeled into the bay-window,
which commanded a garden with a single tree and a variety of house-tops
and dead walls.
“So you have come,” she said, without any form of greeting. “I hardly
expected so much from you. Sit down there, if you please. I have a good
deal to tell you.”
“I had intended never to enter your house again, aunt. But I could not
refuse to hear anything you have to say in your own justification. Only
there is one act of yours which you can never justify—either to me or
to God.”
“What is that, pray?”
“Your refusal to tell me the secret of Fay’s birth, when my happiness
and my husband’s depended upon my knowing it.”
“To tell you that would have been to betray my own secret. Do you
think, after keeping it for nine-and-thirty years, I was likely to
surrender it lightly? I would sooner have cut my tongue out. I did what
I could for you. I told you to ignore idle prejudice and to go back to
your husband. I told you what was due from you to him, over and above
all sanctimonious scruples. You would not listen to me, and whatever
misery you have suffered has been misery of your own creation.”
“Do not let us talk any more about it, aunt. I can never think
differently about the wrong you have done me. Had I not found those
letters—by the merest accident, remember—I might have gone down to my
grave a desolate woman. I might have died in a foreign land, far away
from the only voice that could comfort me in my last hours. No; my
opinion of your guilty silence can never change. You were willing to
break two hearts rather than hazard your own reputation; and yet you
must have known that I would keep your secret, that I should sympathise
with the sorrow of your girlhood,” added Mildred, in softened tones.
Miss Fausset was slow in replying. Mildred’s reproaches fell almost
unheeded upon her ear. It was of herself she was thinking, with all
the egotism engendered by a lonely old age, without ties of kindred or
friendship, with no society but that of flatterers and parasites.
“I asked you if you had found any letters of your father’s relating to
that unhappy girl,” she said. “I always feared his habit of keeping
letters—a habit he learnt from my father. Yet I hoped that he would
have burnt mine, knowing, as he did, that the one desire of my life was
to obliterate that hideous past. Vain hope. I was like the ostrich.
If I hid my secret in England, it was known in Italy. The man who
destroyed my life was a traitor to the core of his heart, and he
betrayed me to his son. He told César how he had fascinated a rich
English girl, and fooled her with a mock marriage; and fifteen years
ago the young man presented himself to me with the full knowledge of
that dark blot upon my life—to me, here, where I had held my head
so high. He let me know the full extent of his knowledge in his own
subtle fashion; but he always treated me with profound respect—he
pretended to be fond of me; and, God help me, there was a charm for
me in the very sound of his voice. The man who cheated me out of my
life’s happiness was lying in his grave: death lessens the bitterness
of hatred, and I could not forget that I had once loved him.”
The tears gathered slowly in the cold gray eyes, and rolled slowly down
the hollow cheeks.
“Yes, I loved him, Mildred—loved him with a foolish, inexperienced
girl’s romantic love. I asked no questions. I believed all he told
me. I flung myself blindfold into the net. His genius, his grace,
his fire—ah, you can never imagine the charm of _his_ manner, the
variety of his talent, compared with which his son’s accomplishments
are paltry. You see me now a hard, elderly woman. As a girl I was
warm-hearted and impetuous, full of enthusiasm and imagination, while
I loved and believed in my lover. My whole nature changed after that
great wrong—my heart was frozen.”
There was a silence of some moments, and then Miss Fausset continued
in short agitated sentences, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the
double eyeglass which she wore on a slender gold chain:
“It was his genius I worshipped. He was at the height of his success.
The Milanese raved about him as a rival to Donizetti; his operas
were the rage. Can you wonder that I, a girl passionately fond of
music, was carried away by the excitement which was in the very air
I breathed? I went to the opera night after night. I heard that
fascinating music till its melodies seemed interwoven with my being. I
suppose I was weak enough to let the composer see how much I admired
him. He had quarrelled with his wife; and the quarrel—caused by his
own misconduct—had resulted in a separation which was supposed to be
permanent. There may have been people in Milan who knew that he was a
married man, but my chaperon did not; and he was careful to suppress
the fact from the beginning of our acquaintance.
“Yes, no doubt he found out that I was madly in love with him. He
pretended to be interested in my musical studies. He advised and taught
me. He played the violin divinely, and we used to play _concertante_
duets during the long evenings, while my chaperon dozed by the fire,
caring very little how I amused myself, so long as I did not interfere
with her comfort. She was a sensual, selfish creature, given over to
self-indulgence, and she let me have my own way in everything. He
used to join me at the Cathedral at vespers. How my heart thrilled
when I found him there, sitting in the shadowy chancel in the gray
November light! for I knew it was for my sake he went there, not from
any religious feeling. Our hands used to meet and clasp each other
almost unconsciously when the music moved us as it went soaring up to
the gorgeous roof, in the dim light of the hanging lamps before the
altar. I have found myself kneeling with my hand in his when I came out
of a dream of Paradise to which that exquisite music had lifted me.
Yes, I loved him, Mildred; I loved him as well as ever you loved your
husband—as passionately and unselfishly as woman ever loved. I rejoiced
in the thought that I was rich, for his sake. I planned the life that
we were to live together; a life in which I was to be subordinate to
him in all things—his adoring slave. I suppose most girls have some
such dream. God help them, when it ends as mine did!”
Again there was a silence—a chilling muteness upon Mildred’s part. How
could she be sorry for this woman who had never been sorry for others;
who had let her child travel from the cradle to the grave without one
ray of maternal love to light her dismal journey! She remembered Fay’s
desolate life and blighted nature—Fay, who had a heart large enough
for a great unselfish love. She remembered her aunt’s impenetrable
silence when a word would have restored happiness to a ruined home;
she remembered, and her heart was hardened against this proud, selfish
woman, whose life had been one long sacrifice to the world’s opinion.
“I loved him, Mildred, and I trusted him as I would have trusted any
man who had the right to call himself a gentleman,” pursued Miss
Fausset, eager to justify herself in the face of that implacable
silence. “I had been brought up, after the fashion of those days, in
a state of primeval innocence. I had never, even in fiction, been
allowed to come face to face with the cruel realities of life. I
was educated in an age which thought _Jane Eyre_ an improper novel,
and which restricted a young woman’s education to music and modern
languages; the latter taught so badly, for the most part, as to be
useless when she travelled. My knowledge of Italian would just enable
me to translate a libretto when I had it before me in print, or to ask
my way in the streets; but it was hardly enough to make me understand
the answer. It never entered into my mind to doubt Paolo Castellani
when he told me that, although we could not, as Papist and Protestant,
be married in any church in Milan, we could be united by a civil
marriage before a Milanese authority, and that such a marriage would
be binding all the world over. Had I been a poor girl I might of my
own instinct have suspected treachery; but I was rich and he was poor,
and he would be a gainer by our marriage. Servants and governesses had
impressed me with the sense of my own importance, and I knew that I
was what is called a good match. So I fell into the trap, Mildred, as
foolishly as a snared bird. I crept out of the house one morning after
my music-lesson, found my lover waiting for me with a carriage close
by, went with him to a dingy office in a dingy street, but which had a
sufficiently official air to satisfy my ignorance, and went through a
certain formula, hearing something read over by an elderly man of grave
appearance, and signing my name to a document after Paolo had signed
his.
“It was all a sham and a cheat, Mildred. The old man was a Milanese
attorney, with no more power to marry us than he had to make us
immortal. The paper was a deed-of-gift by which Paolo Castellani
transferred some imaginary property to me. The whole thing was a farce;
but it was so cleverly planned that the cheat was effected without
the aid of an accomplice. The old man acted in all good faith, and
my blind confidence and ignorance of Italian accepted a common legal
formality as a marriage. I went from that dark little office into the
spring sunshine happy as ever bride went out of church, kissed and
complimented by a throng of approving friends. I cared very little
as to what my brother might think of this clandestine marriage. He
would have refused his consent beforehand, no doubt, but he would
reconcile himself to the inevitable by and by. In any event, I should
be independent of his control. My fortune would be at my own disposal
after my one-and-twentieth birthday—mine, to throw into my husband’s
lap.
“That is nearly the end of my story, Mildred. We went from Milan to
Como, and after a few days at Bellagio crossed the St. Gothard, and
sauntered from one lovely scene to another till we stopped at Vevay.
For just six weeks I lived in a fool’s paradise; but by that time my
brother had traced us to Vevay—having learnt all that could be learnt
about Castellani at Milan before he started in pursuit of us. He came,
and my dream ended. I knew that I was a dishonoured woman, and that
all my education, my innate pride in myself, and my fortune had done
for me, was to place me as low as the lowest creature in the land. I
left Vevay within an hour of that revelation a broken-hearted woman.
I never saw my destroyer’s face again. You know all, Mildred, now.
Can you wonder that I shrank with abhorrence from the offspring of my
disgrace—that I refused ever to see her after I had once released
myself from the hateful tie?”
“Yes, I do wonder; I must always wonder that you were merciless to
her—that you had no pity for that innocent life.”
“Ah, you are your father’s daughter. He wished me to hide myself in
some remote village so that I might taste the sweets of maternal
affection, enjoy the blessed privilege of rearing a child who at every
instant of her life would remind me of the miserable infatuation that
had blighted my own. No, Mildred, I was not made for such an existence
as that. I have tried to do good to others; I have laboured for God’s
Church and God’s poor. That has been my atonement.”
“It would have been a better atonement to have cared for your own flesh
and blood; but with your means and opportunities you might have done
both. I loved Fay, remember, aunt. I cannot forget how bright and happy
she might have been. I cannot forget the wrongs that warped her nature.”
“You are very hard, Mildred, hard to a woman whose days are numbered.”
“Are not my days numbered, aunt?” cried Mildred, with a sudden burst
of passion. “Was not my heart broken when I left this house last year
to go into loneliness and exile, abandoning a husband I adored? That
parting was my deathblow. In all the long dreary days that have gone by
since then my hold upon life has been loosening. You might have saved
me that agony. You might have sent me back to my home rejoicing—and you
would not. You cared more for your own pride than for my happiness. You
might have made your daughter’s life happy—and you would not. You cared
more for the world’s esteem than for her welfare. As you sacrificed
her, your daughter, you have sacrificed me, your niece. I know that I
am doomed. Just when God has given me back the love that makes life
precious, I feel the hand of death upon me, and know that the hour of
parting is near.”
“I have been a sinner, Mildred; but I have suffered—I have suffered.
You ought not to judge me. You have never known shame.”
That last appeal softened Mildred’s heart. She went over to her aunt’s
chair, and leant over her and kissed her.
“Let the past be forgotten,” she said, “and let us part in love.”
And so, a quarter of an hour later, they parted, never to meet again on
earth.
Miss Fausset died in the early winter, cut off by the first frost,
like a delicate flower. She had made no change in the disposal of her
property, and her death made Mildred Greswold a very rich woman.
“My aunt loved the poor,” said Mildred, when she and her husband spoke
of this increase of wealth. “We are both so much richer than our needs,
George. We have lived in sunshine for the most part. When I am gone I
should like you to do some great thing for those who live in shadow.”
“My beloved, I shall remain upon this earth only to obey your will.”
He lived just long enough to keep his promise. The Greswold Hospital
remains, a monument of thoughtful beneficence, in one of the most
wretched neighbourhoods south of the Thames; but George Greswold and
his race are ended like a tale that is told.
* * * * *
César Castellani, enriched by a legacy from Miss Fausset, contrives
still to flourish, and still to wear a gardenia in the button-hole of
an artistic coat; but fashions change quickly in the realm of light
literature, and the star of the author of _Nepenthe_ is sunk in the
oblivion that engulfs ephemeral reputations. Castellani is still
received in certain drawing-rooms; but it is in the silly circles alone
that he is believed in as a man who has only missed greatness because
he is too much of an artist to be a steadfast worker.
THE END.
LONDON:
ROBSON AND SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.
CHEAP UNIFORM EDITION
OF
MISS BRADDON’S NOVELS.
At all Booksellers’, price 2s., picture covers; 2s. 6d., cloth gilt,
uniform with the Cheap Edition of Miss BRADDON’S other Novels,
LIKE AND UNLIKE
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“Lady Audley’s Secret,” “Mohawks,” &c.
_OPINIONS OF THE PRESS._
“Everybody who cares about a novel with a good plot so well worked
out that the excitement is kept up through the three volumes, and
culminates with the last chapter of the story, must ‘Like’ and can
never again ‘Unlike’ this the latest and certainly one of the best of
Miss Braddon’s novels. Miss Braddon is our most dramatic novelist. Her
method is to interest the reader at once with the very first line, just
as that Master-Dramatist of our time Dion Boucicault would rivet the
attention of an audience by the action at the opening of the piece,
even before a line of the dialogue had been spoken. This authoress
never wastes her own time and that of her reader by giving up any
number of pages at the outset to a minute description of scenery, to a
history of a certain family, to a wearisome account of the habits and
customs of the natives, or to explaining peculiarities in manners and
dialect which are to form one of the principal charms of the story.
No: Miss Braddon is dramatic just as far as the drama can assist
her, and then she is the genuine novelist. A few touches present her
characters living before the reader, and the story easily develops
itself in, apparently, the most natural manner possible. ‘Like and
Unlike’ will make many people late for dinner, and will keep a number
of persons up at night when they ought to be soundly sleeping. These
are two sure tests of a really well-told sensational novel. _Vive_ Miss
Braddon!”—_Punch_, October 15th, 1887.
“The author of ‘Lady Audley’s Secret’ still keeps her place among the
most thrilling and fascinating writers of sensational fiction. Her new
novel, ‘Like and Unlike,’ has the best qualities of her best work.
The style is as clear and nervous as ever, the plot constructed and
developed with the same admirable skill, the interest as intense, and
the effect on the imagination as powerful. There is at the same time
more evident in this than in some former works of Miss Braddon’s a
higher purpose than merely to amuse and thrill the reader. The dramatic
element is strong in this tale, but it is the story that speaks; the
author never for a moment stops in her narrative to offer a word of
comment or enforce its moral. None the less powerfully does it preach
the vanity of vanities of the selfish pursuit of pleasure, the misery
that is the end of heartlessness, the retribution that follows sins
great and small, and also the omnipotence in noble natures of penitence
and love. It would not be fair to the reader to take away from that
ignorance of the future which is necessary to the keenest enjoyment of
Miss Braddon’s stories. ‘Like and Unlike’ deals with both country and
town life. There are pure and noble characters in it, and others light
and vain and vicious, and the currents of life of the two classes are
intermingled beneficently and tragically. The title has reference to
the twin brothers, who play a leading—one of them the leading—part in
the drama. Their characters are admirably ‘delineated and contrasted,’
and the moral significance of Valentine’s career is as great as its
interest is absorbing. Madge is also a powerful creation. The Deverill
girls and the other society characters are vividly portrayed. The story
begins quietly, and for a time the reader believes that Miss Braddon
is for once not going to be sensational. He finds by and by that this
is a mistake, and is intensely interested by the gradual, natural, and
apparently inevitable way in which, out of very ordinary materials, the
structure of a powerful plot rises. This will rank among the best of
Miss Braddon’s novels.”—_Scotsman_, October 3, 1887.
_When announcing a recent Novel (“Phantom Fortune”), Messrs. Tillotson
& Son published the following statement in their great coterie of
newspapers_:
“In announcing the issue of another story from the pen of this gifted
author, it seems scarcely necessary to write anything like an elaborate
notice of her previous successes on the field of light literature. It
is now many years ago since ‘Lady Audley’s Secret’ brought Miss Braddon
the fame which lasts all time; and numerous as have been the stories
produced by her facile pen since then, her genius has lost none of
its brilliance nor her skill its cunning. Years have not weakened her
marvellous powers of imagination, nor familiarity with her productions
diminished the sparkling freshness of her infinite variety. Her later
works, as competent critics readily aver, exhibit higher and better
qualities than her earlier, because bringing to bear long experience, a
ripened understanding, and a mature judgment upon her brilliant genius,
her unrivalled skill in the construction of plots, and her marvellous
talent for depicting human nature under incessant changes of character
and circumstances.
“A glance at the earlier chapters of the story upon which Miss Braddon
is now engaged (‘Phantom Fortune’), and which we shall shortly place
before our readers, abundantly justifies language of the loftiest
eulogy. Almost at its very opening we are introduced to characters and
scenes of absorbing interest. Around distinguished personages in the
political and diplomatic world gather lords and ladies of the highest
rank of beauty and fashion. Indian affairs and Indian princes figure
conspicuously. The Cabinet at home and the India Office are in a
flutter of excitement consequent upon extraordinary rumours affecting
an Anglo-Indian official of high rank, who suddenly returns to England,
another Warren Hastings, to defend himself before the Imperial
Parliament, but mysteriously dies on his arrival in this country, after
painful interviews with his accomplished wife, a person of exalted rank
and station. With a skill all Miss Braddon’s own, she portrays not the
outer and conventional ways of Society only, but also the inner life of
the lords and ladies who constitute the leading characters, drawn by
her masterly hand. As the story proceeds it may be expected to develop
one of the strongest of Miss Braddon’s strong plots, and to maintain
her almost boundless sway in the domain of fiction.”
_FURTHER OPINIONS OF THE PRESS._
_From amongst reviews of Miss Braddon’s recent works, which would
occupy a large volume if published in extenso, we select the following
pithy extracts_:
JUST AS I AM.
“Miss Braddon’s novel, ‘Just as I am,’ is as fresh, as wholesome,
as enthralling, as amusing as any of the stories with which, for a
series of years, she has proved her title as Queen of the Circulating
Library.”—_The World._
“Equals in skilful design and powerful execution any of Miss Braddon’s
previous works.”—_Daily Telegraph._
“The story may be added to her lengthy list of successes.”—_Court
Journal._
“From the pen of the most accomplished author of the day, a lady who
is perhaps the most facile and voluminous writer of fiction.”—_Court
Circular._
ASPHODEL.
“The most charming novel that Miss Braddon has ever produced.”—_Vanity
Fair._
“Deeply interesting and extremely well written.”—_Morning Post._
“A sound and healthy story; in one word, a true woman’s book.”—_Morning
Advertiser._
“The style is wonderfully easy and fluent; the conversations are
brilliant, pointed, and vigorous. The early scenes are charming.”—_The
Athenæum._
“Full of genuine human interest.”—_The Scotsman._
MOUNT ROYAL.
“The worthy work of a thorough artist.”—_Morning Post._
“Replete with all the freshness and charm which she has taught the
public to expect from her.”—_Daily Telegraph._
“Miss Braddon’s romantic spirit has been in no way quenched, but in
this last novel its brighter rays are tempered by experience.”—_Daily
Chronicle._
“Miss Braddon has given us a story which, while it adds to her fame as
an authoress, increases our indebtedness to her; the healthy tone of
‘Mount Royal’ is not one of its least charms.”—_Pictorial World._
“The story can be followed with the keenest interest.”—_St. James’s
Gazette._
“Contains many sparkling passages and many happy thoughts.”—_Sheffield
Daily Telegraph._
“The novel is without doubt a good and a bright one.”—_Manchester
Courier._
TAKEN AT THE FLOOD.
“Contains more elements of success than a dozen ordinary
novels.”—_Bradford Observer._
“The latest addition to Miss Braddon’s unparalleled series of brilliant
novels.”—_Court Journal._
“Sustains the fame which Miss Braddon has achieved as one of the first
of living novelists.”—_Newcastle Daily Chronicle._
“Her work, take it for all in all, is the best we get.”—_Sunday Times._
A STRANGE WORLD.
“Has a fresh and fascinating interest.”—_Daily Telegraph._
“Brimful of life and movement, and that life and movement of a
thoroughly healthy kind.”—_World._
“In the construction of a plot Miss Braddon is unrivalled.”—_Court
Journal._
DEAD MEN’S SHOES.
“Bright writing, and a story which never flags.”—_Scotsman._
“A work of good moral purpose and of skilful execution.”—_Pictorial
World._
“Full of life and interest, vivid in characterisation, abounds in
pleasant and accurate description.”—_Sunday Times._
WEAVERS AND WEFT.
“It is eminently attractive reading.”—_Whitehall Review._
“An undeniable amount of entertaining reading in the book.”—_Athenæum._
“Like a gleam of sunshine in dreary weather.”—_News of the World._
LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.
CHEAP EDITION OF
MISS BRADDON’S NOVELS.
In Two-Shilling Volumes, Uniform.
ALWAYS IN PRINT.
_Also in cloth, 2s. 6d.; and in vellum, 3s. 6d._
1. LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET.
2. HENRY DUNBAR.
3. ELEANOR’S VICTORY.
4. AURORA FLOYD.
5. JOHN MARCHMONT’S LEGACY.
6. THE DOCTOR’S WIFE.
7. ONLY A CLOD.
8. SIR JASPER’S TENANT.
9. TRAIL OF THE SERPENT.
10. LADY’S MILE.
11. LADY LISLE.
12. CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE.
13. BIRDS OF PREY.
14. CHARLOTTE’S INHERITANCE.
15. RUPERT GODWIN.
16. RUN TO EARTH.
17. DEAD SEA FRUIT.
18. RALPH THE BAILIFF.
19. FENTON’S QUEST.
20. LOVELS OF ARDEN.
21. ROBERT AINSLEIGH.
22. TO THE BITTER END.
23. MILLY DARRELL.
24. STRANGERS AND PILGRIMS.
25. LUCIUS DAVOREN.
26. TAKEN AT THE FLOOD.
27. LOST FOR LOVE.
28. A STRANGE WORLD.
29. HOSTAGES TO FORTUNE.
30. DEAD MEN’S SHOES.
31. JOSHUA HAGGARD.
32. WEAVERS AND WEFT.
33. AN OPEN VERDICT.
34. VIXEN.
35. THE CLOVEN FOOT.
36. THE STORY OF BARBARA.
37. JUST AS I AM.
38. ASPHODEL.
39. MOUNT ROYAL.
40. GOLDEN CALF.
41. PHANTOM FORTUNE.
42. FLOWER AND WEED.
43. ISHMAEL.
44. WYLLARD’S WEIRD.
45. UNDER THE RED FLAG.
46. ONE THING NEEDFUL.
47. MOHAWKS.
* * * * *
48. CUT BY THE COUNTY.
_Price One Shilling._
“No one can be dull who has a novel by Miss Braddon in hand. The
most tiresome journey is beguiled, and the most wearisome illness is
brightened, by any one of her books.”
_Extract from a very eloquent and excellent Sermon preached by the
Rev. W. Benham, B.D., on March 4th, 1883, at St. Stephen’s Church,
South Kensington._
“I have undertaken to speak freely concerning our social life and
habits, and therefore I shall not shrink from speaking about two
subjects not often mentioned within the walls of a church—I mean
‘sensational novels,’ as they are called, and the drama. great outcry
is made against the former, which I am afraid is not very sincere,
considering that those who make the outcry go on reading them. That
the writers depict startling and sometimes horrible scenes no one will
deny, but I am not aware that there is any more harm in that than in
reading the last report of the ‘Dublin Police News.’ What lies at the
foundation of such novels is the craving after reality as against false
sentiment. Who is the worse for reading ‘Hamlet,’ or ‘Othello,’ or
‘Macbeth’? There are horrors enough in these. What young man should
not be the better for admiring Ophelia or Desdemona? I know an aged
living prelate, whose praise is widely spread in the Church for his
contributions to sacred literature, and who is venerated by all who
love him for his piety and saintliness, who declares that the writings
of the chief of these novelists—I mean Miss Braddon—are among the best
of the works of fiction. Judge for yourselves. I hold that her books
are _the very contrast_ of the few French sensation novels that I have
read, whose philosophy might be summed up in the scoffer’s words, ‘Let
us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.’”
LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.
Transcriber’s Notes
pg 113 Changed: my benfactress has consummated the generosity
to: my benefactress has consummated the generosity
pg 218 Changed: He was sittting in the lamp-light
to: He was sitting in the lamp-light
pg 226 Changed: Tire me to walk to the shubbery
to: Tire me to walk to the shrubbery