THE SECRET REVEALED.
And in her lineaments they trace
Some features of her father’s face.
_—Byron._
In the meantime Miss Seabright was preparing to resign her state. Few
can estimate the terrible trial it was to this just but ambitious girl
to abdicate her elevated social position and step down upon the common
level to labor with the common herd. You have already seen how, in the
fearful struggle which had ensued—in that dread bosom tempest—all the
latent selfishness which marred that noble nature was thrown up and
exposed upon the crest of the tossing waves of passion. But if, in this
soul-storm, her hidden evil was cast up to view, it was also cast off.
And then, when the waves of her heart subsided, and the clouds on her
brain dispersed, and the sun of right shone out clear and bright,
illuminating her soul, and revealing her to herself—then she saw that
there was something in her own nature greater than all her adventitious
surroundings. Now she would not have said to Hugh what she had said
before, “I am not much, shorn of my beams.” No, indeed, there was
consolidating in her heart a noble, steadfast self-appreciation that
would no more falsify itself by factitious humility than degrade itself
by unjust action. And having once made the sacrifice, and turned her
back upon the splendors of her past fortune, there was no regret, no
looking back, like Lot’s wife; her face was set to her forward path—her
strong, impetuous soul already rushing on to realize her future of
loving and hopeful toil with Hugh for her companion and guide. With
Hugh! How, the recurring of his very name, the tide of emotion, like the
rushing of a mighty river, would roll over her, overwhelming and
confusing her soul with a sort of lost, delirious joy! Within this month
of sacrifice, how much stronger and more concentrated had become her
love for Hugh! And if the Judge of all hearts had demanded a reason for
the mighty love that was in her, she would have been constrained to
answer, “It is his moral integrity that has mastered my heart. It is his
moral integrity that would not waver, for love or for ambition—those two
mightiest passions of the human soul. I loved him before, I loved him
well enough to have given him myself and all my wealth, but when I found
in him a moral rectitude that would not bend for love of me, or hope of
grandeur, I was drawn up to adore him. Yes, that is why I would rather
follow him barefoot over all the earth, if necessary, and serve him as
the Indian woman serves her lord, than be myself the object of worship
to all the world.”
Yes, there was a man to love through life and unto death; there was a
man to repose upon in all weakness, to confide in in all emergencies;
whom the combined power of love and ambition, beauty, wealth, and the
usages of society that would have justified him, could never move from
his uprightness. There was a pillar of strength to cling to in a storm.
It was with as much high-born pride and joy as love that Garnet thought
of her betrothed.
The month and her preparations drew near their close. She was daily
expecting to hear of the arrival of the family of Dr. Hardcastle at
Hemlock Hollow. Dr. Hutton, who had not yet returned, was to come with
them. She was looking for them by every stage, and hourly she added some
new attraction to the preparations she was making to receive them. The
ancients were accustomed to adorn a sacrifice before offering it up, and
the same instinct impelled Miss Seabright daily to walk through her
halls and chambers, designing, with her artistic taste, new improvements
and embellishments for the palace home she was about to resign.
The wedding day arrived. It was a bright and beautiful day in May. Upon
the evening previous Dr. Hardcastle, with his family, had arrived at
Hemlock Hollow. Therefore, there had been no time or opportunity for a
meeting between them and Miss Seabright previous to the marriage day.
Dr. Hutton was a guest at the Hollow, and a note from him to Miss
Seabright informed her that they would all be at Mount Calm at an early
hour of the morning. Owing to the rather recent deaths in the family,
and the peculiarity of the circumstances, it had been arranged that the
marriage ceremony should be performed quietly at eight o’clock in the
morning in the saloon of Mount Calm, in the presence of few witnesses,
and that immediately after the ceremony and breakfast the young couple
should depart to seek their Western home, leaving Mrs. Garnet in
possession of the mansion house and the estate. The only guests invited
were the Hardcastles, with Mrs. Garnet, Judge Wylie and Miss Wylie, and
their old friend, the Rev. Mr. Wilson, with his wife and young sister.
The marriage ceremony was to be performed after the Episcopal ritual by
the recently installed pastor of the New Church.
At seven o’clock in the morning, therefore, the few privileged friends,
with the exception of the Hardcastles, who had not yet arrived, were
assembled in the saloon of Mount Calm, awaiting the entree of the bridal
party.
At last the carriage containing the family from Hemlock Hollow drove up
and paused before the main entrance of the mansion, and Dr. Hardcastle
alighted, followed by Dr. Hutton, who then handed out Mrs. Garnet and
Mrs. Hardcastle. They passed up the marble stairs and into the hall,
where they paused until Mrs. Garnet had sent up a servant to the bride,
to request the favor of being received by her before she should come
down into the saloon, and obtained an answer that Miss Seabright would
be pleased to see Mrs. Garnet and Mrs. Hardcastle in her own apartment.
The servant who brought back the message bowed and offered to show the
ladies up. Mrs. Garnet and her daughter followed him up the broad
staircase into the upper hall, and through a door into an elegant front
dressing room, which Alice recognized with a smile as having been her
own bedchamber.
The room, when they entered, was vacant of other occupants, but they had
scarcely seated themselves at the front windows when the opposite
folding doors opened and Miss Seabright appeared before them.
A novice, when she is about to renounce forever the pomps and vanities
of the world and take the black veil of the nun, arrays herself for the
last time in costly apparel. So Miss Seabright, when about to resign
forever all pretensions to splendor, arrayed her glorious form with
almost regal magnificence. Her bridal costume was a rich Mechlin lace
over white and silver brocaded satin, and festooned with bouquets of
pearls and diamonds, a fine and ample lace veil confined above her and
ringlets by a wreath of the same priceless gems.
Mrs. Garnet raised her eyes to look upon the bride. She had never seen
Miss Seabright before, and now, at the first sight of her magnificently
beautiful form and face, Alice started violently: all the blood suddenly
left her cheeks for an instant, and then rushed back again, crimsoning
her face to the very edges of her hair—so startling, so strong, so
painful was the resemblance of Miss Seabright to the late General
Garnet. Yes, there was the same majesty and sweetness of mien, the same
regal turn of head and neck, the same fiery, dark hair, the same
smoldering and flashing eyes, the same beautiful lips, the same
bewildering smile. The only difference was that in place of the latent
diabolism under General Garnet’s countenance all heaven shone from Miss
Seabright’s. Alice felt that she looked upon her late husband’s face,
only with its beauty idealized, elevated, made divine. The vague,
half-formed suspicions concerning the paternity of Garnet Seabright that
had occasionally floated through her mind now became painfully
confirmed. As she gazed chills and heats alternately shook her frame,
and then a strong, yearning compassion mingled with the high admiration
she had hitherto felt for the noble-souled girl, and she said to
herself: “I wonder if she knows it?” Then, looking at her more
attentively, she exclaimed inwardly: “No, no! she does not know or
suspect it! My soul upon it, she does not know or suspect it! No; there
is a high self-appreciation, a grandeur in her mien and air, a majesty
seated on that pure and lofty brow, unconscious of shame—unconscious of
the very possibility of shame! God shield her from the knowledge! for,
oh! as I look upon her noble presence now, I feel too surely that the
knowledge of her shame would kill her with a stroke swift, sharp, and
sure! God shield her from the knowledge! It were sacrilege to discrown
that imperial brow of its diadem of unsullied honor, and brand it with
shame instead. God shield the innocent from the knowledge of guilt which
is infamy! God shield her! Oh, I can now forgive my dead husband for
having cheated me out of this beautiful daughter, when I think he had
the grace to keep her innocent of the knowledge of her parentage and his
guilt. Yet how he must have loved her! Oh, doubtless many times when his
brow was overcast with gloom and sullenness, it was with the thought of
this child. He never confided his sins or his troubles to me. Would he
had! I could have been as much of a friend as a wife to him. Would he
had had faith enough in me, when the poor little one was orphaned, to
have laid her on my bosom instead of exiling her to that bleak isle! I
would have brought her up as my own. Did he dream that I would have been
otherwise than good to a little child? But he would not trust me. He
could tyrannize over me in a thousand useless ways, yet never could
venture to bring the motherless child to my arms. No; he could never
tell me until that night, when drunken both with brandy and bad
passions—he taunted me with the fact.”
All these thoughts of Garnet’s parentage passed with the rapidity of
lightning through the mind of Mrs. Garnet, while Miss Seabright, with
outstretched hands and radiant countenance, was advancing toward her.
“No; she must never know it! That pure, bright brow must never be
smirched and darkened by the burning, blackening smite of shame! Yet
shall she be another daughter to me,” concluded Alice, as she arose to
meet the bride. As Miss Seabright, being the taller of the two, bent to
welcome Mrs. Garnet, Alice threw one arm caressingly over her shoulder,
and saying:
“We must not meet as strangers, my love,” kissed her cheek.
Miss Seabright looked down with proud gravity upon the gentle lady for
an instant, and then said:
“I have great pleasure in welcoming you back to your native halls, Mrs.
Garnet. Long may you live in the enjoyment of them!”
“The enjoyment of which I owe to you, noble girl.”
“Nay, madam; the long deprivation of which you owed to me,
unfortunately. The repossession of which now you owe to nobody—nothing.
It is simple justice.”
“But it is not justice, thou noble girl, that thou, who wast brought up
in affluence——”
“Nay, madam—I have known penury, too!” interrupted Miss Seabright, with
a sort of proud humility, if the phrase be admissible.
Without noticing the interruption Mrs. Garnet resumed:
“It is not justice that one educated in luxury, and in the prospect of
nearly boundless wealth, should be suddenly bereft of everything and
reduced to a position for which she is totally unfit.”
“Oh, madam! pardon me. Had I not an example before me? Did not your own
admirable daughter resign wealth and station and go forth to a life of
toil and privation to preserve intact the integrity of her heart?” said
Garnet Seabright, with gentle dignity, waving her hand toward Mrs.
Hardcastle, who had withdrawn to a distant window during this colloquy.
“Yes, to preserve the dignity of her heart, and the love of her
heart—which latter gave her strength to do as she did. Yes, and that was
scarcely a trial to Elsie, who possessed a cheerful, loving, and active
temperament, and was, besides, without your aspiring ambition. No, Miss
Seabright—nature, even more than education, has quite unfitted you for
the life of active household toil and privation, voluntarily assumed for
long years by Mrs. Hardcastle. No, Miss Seabright—justice, as well as
your own magnanimous conduct, has imposed this duty on me.” Miss Garnet
paused and, drawing from her pocket a roll of parchment, placed it in
the hands of the bride.
“What is this?” asked Miss Seabright.
“It is a deed of conveyance of property to the amount of one-tenth the
Mount Calm estate. Receive it, with my love, as a marriage portion.”
“I cannot, madam,” said Miss Seabright, returning the deed.
“Nay, take it—take it then as a mark of the high esteem—the honor I bear
you!” persisted Mrs. Garnet, tendering the packet.
“No, I cannot take it, madam.”
“Receive it, then, as your right, proud girl! Education and expectation
have given you a right to this Take it.”
“Indeed, believe me, I cannot, madam; though from my soul I thank you,”
said Miss Seabright, with emotion.
Mrs. Garnet looked discouraged for an instant, and then, as her glance
fell upon the bright and joyous form of Elsie, as she stood looking out
from the front window upon the spring scene, her eyes lighted up, and
she called to her:
“Elsie, my love, come here. You have a gift of persuasion that I, with
all my good-will, never possessed.”
Elsie came smiling forward.
“Miss Seabright, this is my daughter, Mrs. Hardcastle.” (Ah, Heaven! if
they knew they were sisters!)
As Miss Seabright bowed Mrs. Hardcastle threw her arm around her neck,
and kissed her heartily, exclaiming simply:
“Oh, I wished to meet you so much! I shall be so glad to know you well!”
“I called you here, my love, to aid me in persuading Miss Seabright to
suffer me to do her justice. You know——”
“Yes, I know!” said Elsie, interposing her cheerful voice. “I know all
about it. See here, Miss Seabright! I never was crowned with
magnanimity, sublimity, enthusiasm, or the rest of the Godlike virtues
and frenzies! But I am gifted with some sound, good sense, which is ever
at the service of my friends, and I offer you a sample of it now.
Magnanimity is Godlike, until it is distorted into fanaticism, when it
is fool-like! It was magnanimous in you to give up the whole of this
estate. It would be fanatical to refuse to take the tenth of it when it
is offered to you.”
The aptness of this argument seemed to strike Miss Seabright, for,
smiling, she replied:
“I refer you to Dr. Hutton. I underwent such a course of lessons from
him upon the love of lucre, as opposed to the love of justice, that I
shall not forget it soon. Ha! I am not sure that, should I go to the
altar with a deed of any portion of this estate in my pocket, he would
not think I had backslidden in principles, and reject me even there!”
Here Miss Joe, who, unperceived, had entered the room and came up to
them, interposed her voice, saying:
“I wish he wouldn’t—I just do! I shouldn’t like to see Hugh make such a
fool of himself as that!” Then, patting Miss Seabright affectionately
upon the shoulder, she whispered, in a knowing, confidential tone: “You
take it yourself, honey. Who has got a better right to some o’ General
Garnet’s property than you? Sure, you’re his own flesh and blood! and
the image of him, too! You’re his own flesh and blood, honey. I know all
about it. It’s all in the little yellow hair trunk among the letters.
You take it, honey. You’re his own flesh and blood!”
“Oh! Miss Joe, your rash words have destroyed—have blasted her!”
exclaimed Alice, in a voice of agony, as the old lady, having fired this
magazine, hurried out of the room quite heedless, because quite
unsuspicious of the impending ruin.
And ruined indeed looked Miss Seabright, with every vestige of color
blasted from her marble-like face. Still as a statue of despair, she
stood with her dilated eyes immovably fixed upon the receding figure of
the old woman, until it had disappeared from the room.
Then tossing back her bridal veil and springing forward she grasped the
hand of Mrs. Garnet, and, darting her wild gaze piercingly into the
lady’s gentle eyes, she asked hurriedly:
“Did I—did I hear aright? What did she say?”
“Nothing; do not mind her, Miss Seabright,” replied the lady, with a
flushed brow.
“What did she say?” repeated Garnet.
“Nothing! Nothing worth telling, my dear.”
“Oh! I implore you, tell me what did she say?”
“My dearest girl! nothing that it is well you should hear.”
“Nay, then! I adjure you to tell me! By your soul’s truth, I adjure you
to tell me!” she persisted wildly.
“She told you, dearest Garnet, that you were the daughter of my late
husband; but——”
“Stay! am I so?” interrupted Garnet, in a voice of indescribable
anguish.
“Yes—I believe so,” replied Alice gently.
She dropped the hand she had grasped with such strength, and stood as if
suddenly turned to stone, for an instant—and then springing forward with
the wild energy of desperation, she exclaimed:
“Unsay those words—or see me die before you.”
Alice suddenly threw her arms around the form of the stricken girl, and,
catching her wild eyes, gazed into them deeply and tenderly as though
she would have transfused all her own sweet love and resignation into
that rampant soul, and said:
“Dearest child! She told you only what we knew, and still loved you.
Dearest child! you are my husband’s daughter, and Elsie’s younger
sister—and we love you.”
“The child of your husband and not your child! The younger sister of
your daughter, and you living!” exclaimed the wretched girl, sinking,
withering, shriveling as it were before the fell blast of this burning
and consuming revelation. At last she groaned forth in tones of
unutterable sorrow: “Oh! oh! was it right, Heaven! was it well, Heaven!
just as I had made a great sacrifice to duty, and achieved a great moral
victory; was it well to strike me in my pride of place, and bring me
down so low! so low!” Then with another spasmodic outbreak of energy,
she exclaimed: “Unsay those words! Unsay them, or see me die before you!
Take all I have—wealth, rank, prospects, hopes! all, all! but, for the
love of God, unsay those words! Take all, all! but leave me my honorable
name! Take all, all! but let me go an honored, if an humble bride, to my
husband’s home! Oh, for the pity of God!”
Again Mrs. Garnet threw her arms around the cowering form of the
wretched girl, as though she would envelop, sustain, save her in this
trying moment, by the might of love; and saying:
“My dearest Garnet! my love! my love! you shall go an honorable and an
honored bride to your husband’s home. One whom I will take to my bosom
thus—is a worthy match for any man. You should have been my own
daughter, Garnet, but that I was cheated out of you; but I claim you
now. You are my husband’s child, and the express image of his person;
therefore you should have been my child; therefore I claim you now to be
my child of right! I loved your father, Garnet! I love you! Believe me!
Do not cover your face, and turn it from me. Let me kiss you. Do not
grieve so.”
“Grieve!” exclaimed the sinking girl, in a voice of anguish; “I do not
grieve, lady! I die! Grieve! Oh, look you, madam! If I had suffered the
loss of friends by death, or what is worse, by treachery; if I were
miserably poor, ill, and abandoned; if I were dying of disease, want,
and neglect; if I were misjudged, slandered, and persecuted; if I were
unjustly charged, falsely imprisoned, and innocently doomed to death; if
I were suffering any other anguish of mind, or agony of body, then I
might grieve—but now! now! that I know myself a living, breathing
monument of guilt!” A terrible shudder shook her frame and arrested her
speech—her form collapsed and sank more than before—and it was in a
dying voice she resumed: “Now that I know myself infected by worse than
leprosy”—she paused and looked at herself from head to foot; she
stretched forth her beautiful brown arm, frosted with pearls and
diamonds, and surveyed it; she gathered up the lurid ringlets of her
dark hair and gazed on them; then, dropping her arms wearily, she
continued—“I was not so vain as grateful for my beauty. But now! oh,
God! to think that every atom of flesh, and every drop of blood, and
every nerve and vein to my heart’s core is pervaded, permeated with sin
and reproach! sin and reproach! Oh, God! oh, God, quickly take back the
soul Thou didst send into this shape of sin!”
Once more her form cowered, crushed beneath the overwhelming weight of
ignominy. She tottered and must have fallen to the floor, but that Elsie
sprang and aided her mother in supporting her to a sofa near.
“I declare,” exclaimed Elsie, in her positive manner, “there should have
been no concealment; she should have grown up with the knowledge of her
parentage!”
“Oh-h-h! doubtless,” murmured the nearly dying girl, “oh, doubtless they
should have told me of my birth! And then my soul would have grown up
familiarized with infamy, until it became as base as its proscribed
dwelling-place!”
“But,” said Elsie, in her calm way, “is it possible you never suspected
this? Is it possible that, when you came home from school, with all your
faculties alive and keen, you could have looked upon my father’s
portrait, and looked upon your own reflection in the glass, and not be
struck by the resemblance, the identity of the two faces? Is it possible
that you did not suspect?”
“Suspect this! suspect my birth! suspect my shame! Oh, woman, woman! you
found me proud and joyous! how could I have suspected this? You found me
living! how could I have suspected this and lived?” she exclaimed, in a
voice of indescribable grief and reproach, and then her form subsided,
as it were, prostrate, among the cushions. And so it was throughout the
scene; frequent convulsive outbreaks of anguish would be instantly
followed by the prostration of all strength. And then she lay with her
hands pressed upon her face a long time perfectly still, but for an
occasional start and shudder. She lay there, with Elsie sitting by her
side, until the clock struck eight—the marriage hour. Mrs. Garnet then
approached, and, kneeling by her, embraced and kissed her, saying:
“My dear girl, my daughter, rouse yourself. The bitter trial of this
needless revelation has shocked you nearly to death. But it will pass
away, as all trials must, my love. Garnet, I, too, have had trials in my
time, heart-crushing disappointments and sorrows, from which I thought I
never could recover. But I have recovered, you see. My sorrows are gone,
long ago; gone down the stream of the past, and I have been happy for
years. So it will be with you. We all think our first sorrow is to kill
us, but it does not. We live and recover. So you will find it. This
sudden revelation has overwhelmed you, but you will get over it. We will
make you forget it. You will be an honorable and honored wife. You will
be loved and happy. Come, rouse yourself! Your marriage hour has struck.
Your husband waits you even now; come! Give me your hand! Garnet!”
“My marriage hour has struck! My husband waits me now! Oh, madam, do you
then believe me base in soul as in birth?” exclaimed the miserable girl,
with bitterness.
“In the name of Heaven, what mean you?”
“Do you think that I, stripped of all other possessions, will carry my
dower of shame to my husband’s home?”
“In the name of mercy, what do you mean?” asked Alice, in alarm.
“Oh, merely this, that this marriage must not and shall not proceed! Oh,
no! Dr. Hutton must never blush for his wife’s parentage!”
Mrs. Garnet glanced at Elsie in despair. Elsie here interposed her
blooming face and hopeful voice, saying:
“Miss Seabright, as I told you before, I have no grand sentiments, but I
have some good sense, and it seems to me, as it takes two to make an
engagement, it takes two to break it, honestly; I think, as you have
plighted your troth to Hugh Hutton, you might consult him before
breaking faith with him, for such a cause, at the very last moment.”
“Consult him!” said the poor girl, as the blood crimsoned her ashen
brow. “How can I consult him? And if I could, I know his self-immolating
generosity. I know, besides, that he loves me so, he would hold me to my
word; he loves me so, he would take the shame with me. Consult him! No,
no! for many reasons. But without consulting him, I will break with him;
since in breaking faith I shall wrong him less than in keeping it!”
“Ah, Miss Seabright, that is sophistry! And sophistry is ingenious, but
it deceives no one. Duty is very simple, and it never can be mistaken.
But I hear the bridegroom and his friends approaching the door. Come,
rise! let me re-arrange your hair and wreath.”
Mrs. Garnet opened the door, and admitted Dr. Hardcastle and Hugh
Hutton. Dr. Hardcastle went up to his wife, who drew him off to a
distant window, while Hugh Hutton, seeing his bride reclining, pale and
disordered, upon the sofa, hastened to her, stooped over, took her hand,
and gazed anxiously upon her, inquiring:
“My dearest Garnet, what is the matter? Are you ill again?”
She turned her face, whitened and sharpened with anguish, upon him,
gazed intently in his countenance, but said nothing for a full
minute—then, as by a new and sudden impulse, she exclaimed:
“Hugh! I know my birth. Do you?”
Dr. Hutton dropped her hand, frowned, and compressed his lips.
Garnet’s features convulsed with a spasm of anguish, and she covered her
face with her hands.
When Hugh Hutton saw that he dropped upon his knees at her side, removed
her hands, and kissed her pallid brow, saying:
“I know that God created you a beautiful and high-souled woman. I know
that by no act of your life have you ever marred His creation. I seek to
know”—he broke forth with sudden energy—“I consent to know no more.”
“Hugh,” she said, looking at him piteously, “an evil covered up is not
an evil cured. Hugh, this marriage must not go on.”
“Nettie, you are insane!”
“No, never more soberly, sadly sane than now.”
“What! would you break your engagement to me—and at the last moment?”
“Yes; for a sufficient reason.”
“But I will not consent to it.”
“I do not ask your consent. I break it.”
“Nettie!”
“Hugh! stoop down here! nearer—there. Hugh!” she said tenderly, running
her pale fingers through the dark waves of hair each side his massive
forehead, and holding his head between her hands as she gazed fondly in
his face—“Hugh! I know you love me. I have never doubted it one single
moment. And I do love you. So much—so much, Hugh, I love you so much
that, to save my own immortal soul I would not marry you.”
“You dare not refuse me. I claim your plighted faith. I claim you for my
wife,” exclaimed Hugh Hutton passionately.
“To save you I dare refuse you. To save you I dare break my plighted
faith, and take the sin upon my own soul. Hugh! dear Hugh! in one great
contest I yielded to you, because high principle was on your side. But
this is a different matter; I am as inexorable as Death.”
“Nettie! Nettie! I am strong; but your loss would paralyze me. But oh!
it cannot be. I will never, never leave you nor forsake you. If I do,
may God abandon my own soul!”
Her features were convulsed again, and for a moment she concealed them
with her hands; then laying her hands tenderly upon the head of her
kneeling companion, she said:
“It does not matter much for me, for I think that death is upon me—but
for you, Hugh—oh, it is hard, it is hard for you. It is hard for you, so
good and true, so noble as you are, to be so grievously wronged by
disappointment. Oh! it shakes one’s faith in goodness, in Heaven. But I
love you so—I love you so that I will pray God, living or dying, I will
pray God to give you another love, another wife, who shall be worthy of
you.”
“By Heaven! I will have no other wife but you. And you will I have!”
exclaimed Hugh Hutton, forgetting the presence of others, and speaking
so loud as to startle Mrs. Garnet, who came forward and said:
“Oh, Hugh! my dear friend, is not this a trouble? What shall we do to
persuade her?”
“Dear friend, leave me alone with her for a little while. God has
deputed to me some power over His self-willed child—this noble but
stubborn girl. Leave me with her.”
Mrs. Garnet turned to go, but was met near the door by Miss Joe, who
bustled in, and, nudging the lady’s elbow, whispered to her, saying:
“I say! aint it time for them all to walk down? The parson—Parson
Sinclair—has been come for half an hour, and the company downstairs is
getting out o’ patience. Besides, if the ceremony don’t make haste and
get performed, the breakfast will get spoiled—the coffee will boil all
its strength away, and the batter for the rice waffles will rise so much
it will turn sour. What are they all waiting for?”
“Nothing. And I do not know that there will be any marriage,” replied
Mrs. Garnet sternly and bitterly.
“Hugh, what is the matter?” exclaimed Miss Joe, looking around in
surprise. Then, perceiving the recumbent form of Miss Seabright, with
Dr. Hutton still kneeling by her, she inquired: “Dear me! What ails
Garnet?”
“You have ruined her peace forever,” indignantly exclaimed Mrs. Garnet,
unable to forbear reproaches. “You have killed her with your
uncalled-for revelations.”
“Me! ruined what? killed which?” exclaimed the innocent old lady, in
perplexity.
“Garnet Seabright. I say you have killed her.”
“Killed her! why I haint even tetched her. I haint done a thing to her;
I haint harmed a hair of her head. I haint been a-nigh her. She was well
enough when I come through here with the napkins.”
“Words kill! You told her the secret of her birth. You told her she was
General Garnet’s child, and the shock and the shame have overwhelmed,
have killed her.”
The old lady listened with her eyes starting out of her head, and her
mouth wide open with unmeasured astonishment, and then exclaimed:
“Me! Me tell her she was General Garnet’s child! Why, I didn’t do no
such thing! Who says I did?”
“I! I heard you with my own ears.”
“Why, you didn’t hear any such a thing! High! how could I tell such a
lie as that, when it wa’n’t the truth?”
Mrs. Garnet, in her turn, stared with such unbounded astonishment and
incredulity, that the old lady took high offense, and exclaimed:
“Well! upon my word! Next time it lightens, I shouldn’t wonder if you
accused me of setting the clouds afire. Come! if you don’t b’lieve me,
there’s the young gal herself. Go ask her now. She aint dying neither,
no more ’an I am. She looks gashly as a corpse, to be sure, but Lord!
I’ve seen her look that way afore, when she’d get into her tantrums long
o’ her guardian or Hugh. Come! I’ll go;” and the old lady waddled
precipitately across the room to the sofa, exclaiming wrathfully, “Miss
Seabright! Garnet Seabright, I say! Now, did ever I tell you such a
falsity as that you were General Garnet’s child?”
Dr. Hutton started up from his kneeling posture, and stood staring at
the excited old lady. Garnet sprang up from the cushions, and gazed at
her face with all her soul in her eyes.
“My goodness, child; don’t stare at me so wild! You’ll give me the fever
‘n’ ague. Answer my question.”
Here Dr. and Mrs. Hardcastle were attracted to the scene of action.
“Can’t you speak? Did ever I say you were General Garnet’s child?”
“Did—you—not—say—so?” asked Miss Seabright, with life and death
struggling in her bosom.
“No! I did not say so. How could I tell such a lie, when it wasn’t the
truth?”
“And—he—was—not—my—father?”
“I wish people wouldn’t be slandering of your poor, dear mother! poor,
little, wild thing. She was distantly connected with myself.”
“But,” said Elsie, interposing, “no one raised a doubt but yourself,
Miss Joe, and we would like to hear you explain your words, that gave
rise to all this trouble.”
“Words! what words?”
“The words you whispered to Miss Seabright when you passed through the
room an hour ago.”
“Oh! yes. Why, I telled her she might well have a share o’ the property,
seein’ how she was General Garnet’s granddaughter.”
“General Garnet’s granddaughter!” exclaimed everyone.
“Yes. Don’t all talk to me at the same time, you ’fuse my head. I
declare, if my heart aint as big as a batch of light dough, and my head
goes round like a coffee-mill! That ’minds me of the breakfast—’deed it
will get spoiled.”
“But you did not tell her that she was General Garnet’s granddaughter.
It was something else you told her,” said Elsie.
“I—don’t ’fuse my mind. I don’t ’member what the words were, but that’s
what the meaning was.”
“I remember what the words were exactly,” said Elsie; “she said she was
‘his own flesh and blood.’”
“To be sure I did; that’s just what I did say. It’s all in the little
yellow hair trunk—her mother’s little yellow hair trunk. I never knowed
anything about it until I come here to live, because I never had no
chance to fool my time away ransacking of old papers afore. If you’ll
all stop talking to me, I’ll tell you all about it, and you can read the
rest. You see, General Garnet, when he was a boy about seventeen or
eighteen years old, he falls in love long of a poor gal, and marries her
secretly. In about a year arter this, the poor gal she died, leaving of
a young infant son. Then General Garnet—he was Mr. Garnet then—he being
a wild young man, and not wanting to be bothered with children, he puts
this child out to nurse, and goes off and forgets all about it. But the
boy, as he grew up, he knew, somehow, who his father was, and sort o’
always had a hankering arter finding him. Well, he didn’t meet his
father till he listed in the wars, when he was no more than fourteen
years of age; and he served under him the whole length of the war; and
though General Garnet—he was Captain Garnet then—being a handsome,
dashing, gay young officer, would not acknowledge or even notice this
son, yet the boy seemed to worship the very earth his father walked on.
He seemed to live but for one thing in the world—to love and serve his
handsome but unnatural father. He watched over the safety of his life
and his honor. Twice he saved his father’s honor at the loss of his own
reputation; and that was the reason why he never got to be anything
better ’an a corporal all the time he sarved in the war. I’ll tell you
all about it some time, or else you can read it all in the old letters
in the little yellow hair trunk. Well, and at last he saved his father’s
life, at the expense of a dreadful wound, that, arter years of illness,
caused his death. Well, this boy—though his father didn’t set any store
to him, and his comrades didn’t vally him as they ought to ’a done—was
thought a heap on by my wild little cousin. And so, when he come from
the wars, wounded, and feeble, and broken-hearted, she stole away to
him, and they were married. She said she could work for both, and she
did work for both till he died. Well, arter the poor misfortunate young
man was dead and gone, I suppose General Garnet’s conscience, as had
been stone dead long before, had a resurrection, or else the ghost of
his murdered conscience haunted him, for he paid a visit to the young
widow, and found her grieving herself to death. Well, he made a whole
parcel o’ splendid promises as he never fulfilled. And when the poor
young thing died, leaving her little darter in his care, he jest passed
her over to me as a great favor, and that was the very last I ever saw
or heard of him or his promises till he quarreled long o’ his own
darter, and then he comed over and ’dopted Nettie. You see, God never
could prevail with him to do anything, but the devil could make him do
as he pleased.”
“There, there, Miss Joe, that will do,” interrupted Mrs. Garnet, to whom
these severe reflections were deeply painful. “Never, Miss Joe, cast
unnecessary reproach upon the memory of the dumb, defenseless dead.”
“I won’t. I am sure if the Lord pardons him, we can. I won’t say any
more. Only if you want to know all the particulars, you see, you can
read the letters in the little yellow hair trunk. And that’s the end of
the story; and now I know the coffee is spoiled.”
“Garnet, you have a right to blush for your parentage—but let it be a
blush of enthusiasm, for never have I heard of two such disinterested
souls,” said Dr. Hardcastle, shaking her hand with cordial sympathy.
Hugh Hutton said nothing as yet, but stood by her, pouring all his
earnest, loving soul through the gaze he fixed upon her face. And
she—down her cheeks the tears had poured like rain. But now that copious
and refreshing shower was over and the sun of gladness shone out again,
Garnet smiled brightly, while yet the tears sparkled like rain-drops on
her ringlets. Mrs. Hardcastle, with her cheerful blooming expression,
was standing behind her quietly rearranging the disordered wreath and
veil. Mrs. Garnet went to the door of the adjoining room, and beckoned
the two young ladies who were to act as bridesmaids. Dr. Hardcastle
opened the hall door and admitted the groomsmen, who entered and gave
their arms to the young bridesmaids. Hugh Hutton took the hand of
Garnet, and, when she arose, Elsie arranged the folds of her robe, and
whispered:
“Never mind if you are very pale and agitated, dear; it is not so
unbefitting a bride—besides, your veil is down, you know.”
The bridal party moved onward downstairs. As Dr. Hardcastle followed
with his wife, he turned to her with an arch look, and whispered:
“My dear Elsie, there is an old acquaintance of yours below stairs.”
“Many of them, I suspect.”
“Yes, but this one is an uninvited, unexpected, but most welcome guest.”
“Whom?”
“The Honorable Ulysses Roebuck!”
“‘The Honorable Ulysses Roebuck!’ I remember ‘Marse Useless,’ as the
negroes used to call him; but how on earth became he ‘Honorable’?”
Dr. Hardcastle shrugged his shoulders, elevated his eyebrows with a
queer smile, and answered:
“I really suppose just as more of our Honorables become so. He failed at
everything useful, went to a distant part of the State, took to
politics, made stump-speeches ‘full of sound and fury, signifying
nothing’ and got himself sent to Congress. After an absence of ten years
he has just now revisited his native neighborhood. He reached Point
Pleasant by the early boat this morning, and, finding that the family
were all here, he followed them, and is here also.”
“And his old ladylove, who jilted him to marry my father, and lost both,
and who must be now near twenty-eight years of age—how did she receive
him? I should like to have seen that meeting!”
“I saw it. When he first entered the saloon he was caught in the arms of
Judge Jacky, who ran to him and rapturously embraced him, overwhelming
him with welcomes. Then, when released from the old gentleman’s arms, he
shook hands with all his friends and acquaintances, looking uneasily
around the room all the while, as if in search of someone else. At last
his flying glances alighted on the distant form of Ambrosia, standing
near the fireplace. He made her a formal bow, which she acknowledged by
a cold courtesy!”
“After a lover’s quarrel and a separation of ten years! That is a
first-rate sign, Magnus; I should not wonder if he had cherished her
image in his heart through all those years.”
“Well, they had not even spoken when I came away.”
“Better and better! I shall not be surprised if he propose for her
before the day is over.”
They had now reached the saloon where the bridal party were already
ranging themselves before the clergyman, who was no other than our
oldest friend, the Rev. Milton Sinclair.
“See!” whispered Dr. Hardcastle, pointing to where Miss Wylie sat
gloomily at one end of the room, and Mr. Roebuck morosely at the other;
“see! I do not believe they have spoken yet.”
“I believe they’ll be married in a week!” laughed Elsie.
But the clergyman had opened his book, the ceremony was about to
commence, and all became silent and profoundly attentive while it
progressed. It was over, and friends crowded around to offer their
congratulations to the newly-married pair. In the crowd Ulysses Roebuck,
Mrs. Hardcastle, and Ambrosia Wylie got pressed together.
“I declare!” exclaimed Elsie, with her cheerful, ringing tones, “if here
are not two of my old, old playmates!” And seizing a hand of each, she
shook them heartily; then joining those two hands in hers, she said,
“Let me be the mediator. Be friends, as you long to be!” and slipped
away, leaving them together.
“Shall we be friends? Shall we be more to each other, Ambrosia?” said
Ulysses, pressing her hand.
“Yes; if you can forgive the infidelity caused by ambition, and expiated
by whole years of suffering!”
“I have waited for you ten years, Ambrosia. I should think that an
answer. Come! let’s go to the bay window and talk over old times!”
“Not now; the company are going in to breakfast,” replied Ambrosia,
taking his arm; and they followed in the wake of the foremost. Mrs.
Garnet approached the clergyman, who still lingered as if lost in
abstraction.
“Mr. Sinclair,” she said, “it gives me great happiness to see you back
here and settled in our parish. I am much pleased, also, to welcome you
to our house. The company have gone in to breakfast; will you come?” Mr.
Sinclair bowed in grave silence, gave the lady his arm, and they
followed the others.
Breakfast was over. The traveling carriage of Mount Calm was packed and
at the door to convey the newly-married couple to the stage office at
Huttontown, whence they were to start for the West. The family party,
consisting of Mrs. Garnet, Dr. and Mrs. Hardcastle, and the bride and
groom, were grouped for a last leave-taking in the passage, when Miss
Joe suddenly appeared among them, in her poke bonnet and brown shawl,
with a bandbox in one hand and a basket in the other, and followed by a
negro man, bending under the weight of a great trunk. When the little
party stared with surprise, she exclaimed:
“Well, now, you needn’t look so queer, all of you, cause I couldn’t help
of it! I’ve been a-struggling and a-struggling with my feelings, and I
couldn’t help of it! I’m gwine long o’ Hugh and Nettie. They’re like my
own children, ’cause I took care of them when they were little! And I’m
gwine long o’ them. Besides, long as they’re poor, they’ll want somebody
to help them work. It aint much I can do now, seeing I’m nigh on to
seventy years old. But, leastways, I can mend their clothes, and darn
the children’s stockings, and mind the baby, and so on.”
There was no time for much argument now; but to all that Mrs. Garnet and
the Hardcastles could say to prevail on her to remain at Mount Calm the
old lady turned a deaf ear. She was set to go with Hugh and Nettie,
because they were like her own children, and because they were poor.
“But they are not poor,” said Mrs. Garnet; “and, oh! that reminds me—I
have the deed of gift yet,” continued the lady, producing the deed from
her pocket, and placing it in the hands of Dr. Hutton.
“What is this, madam?” he asked, examining the parchment.
“It is merely a dower with your bride,” said the lady.
“It is a deed of conveyance, Hugh, investing me with properties to the
amount of one-tenth the great Mount Calm estate. Can I take it?”
“No, dearest—no, you cannot!” replied Dr. Hutton, pressing her hand;
then, turning to the lady, he said: “Mrs. Garnet, we sincerely thank
you. This generosity is so like yourself that we are not surprised at
it, while we must gratefully decline it.”
As no arguments could move Hugh Hutton from his resolution, the effort
was at last abandoned.
The carriage, into which Miss Joe was packed, drew up nearer to the
door. Garnet embraced her friends successively. Hugh Hutton shook hands
with them in turn, and handed his bride into the carriage. The steps
were put up, the door closed, and the carriage rolled away.
* * * * *
Mrs. Garnet continued to reside at Mount Calm, happy in her vocation of
“Lady Bountiful” to the neighborhood—happy, that is to say, as long as
the fine weather of spring, summer, and autumn last, during which, in
her missions of usefulness or benevolence, she could walk, ride, or
drive through the most beautiful country in the world; but, when winter
came, with its wind and rain, and hail and snowstorms, its impassable
roads, and its long spells of tempestuous or intensely cold weather, and
its longer seasons of enforced confinement within-doors, the lonely lady
of Mount Calm found the solitary grandeur of her mansion house dreary
enough. The minister had been her coadjutor, and often her companion, in
her labors of beneficence, during the preceding eight or ten months; and
now, in the stormy winter weather, he was her willing representative and
almoner among the sick, the poor, and the suffering. No fury of tempest
overhead, or depth of snow, or quagmire under foot, could interrupt the
weekly visits of the pastor to the lady. The solitary lady knew this;
and so, even in the most frightful weather, during the darkest,
dreariest, and loneliest seasons, there was one day in the week to which
she could look forward with certainty of enjoyment—namely, to Wednesday,
when, let the wind and the rain, the hail and the snow, do what it might
to prevent him, the minister was sure to present himself at Mount Calm.
Each Wednesday evening it became more painful for these two friends to
part, and the parting was protracted to a later hour. One very stormy
night in February, when he had lingered by her fireside later than ever
before, and had at last risen to take leave, he detained her hand in his
a long time in silence, and then faltered: “Alice, are we never to be
more to each other than now?” The lady shook her head in mournful
negation, and there was a “soul’s tragedy” in the tone wherewith she
answered simply: “We are old, now!” The timid proposition was not
renewed then; the shyness of age, worse than the shyness of youth,
silenced the lips of the minister. The proposal probably never would
have been renewed, but for the intervention of the cordial-hearted
Elsie—that happy, healthful, sworn foe to all morbid scruples and
needless suffering. She had been made acquainted with her mother’s early
history, and for years past she had watched over the delicate lady with
more care and tenderness than over any of her own robust and blooming
babies. Now that she was divided from her, she felt increased solicitude
for the welfare of the fragile, sensitive recluse. It was toward the
spring that she was awakened to a knowledge of the attachment existing
between the lady and the pastor; and, after taking observation for a few
days, she one day said to her mother: “Mother, why don’t you marry the
minister?”
“Dear Elsie, what could suggest such an absurd thing to your mind? What
would the neighbors say? At our age, too!”
“Dearest mother, they may wonder a little; but, upon the whole, they
will be well pleased. Besides, shall their wonder prevent you being
comfortable? You need each other’s society—you and the minister. You are
both so lonely—you in your mansion, he in his lodgings; you need each
other. Come! accept him, mother. Magnus and I will give you our
blessing,” laughed Elsie; and then, immediately regretting her
involuntary levity, she said seriously: “Dear mother, think of this. You
have reached the summit-point of life; before you lies the descent into
the vale of years; your old friend stands on the same ground, with the
same road before him. Give your hand to your dear old friend, and go ye
down the vale together.”
Elsie was successful in her efforts. Before another winter the lady and
the minister were married; and thenceforward the serene and beautiful
life of the pair gave a poetic fitness to the name of their homestead,
“Mount Calm.”
Dr. and Mrs. Hardcastle made Hemlock Hollow their place of permanent
residence. They erected an elegant mansion, and improved and adorned the
grounds with such artistic taste that it was considered one of the most
beautiful seats in old St. Mary’s.
The Honorable Ulysses and Mrs. Roebuck spent their summers at Point
Pleasant, and their winters in the metropolis, until the Honorable
Ulysses grew weary of political life and careless of popularity, and
lost his election, when they took up their permanent abode at the Point,
with Judge Jacky Wylie.
And the families of Hemlock Hollow, Mount Calm, and Point Pleasant
formed an intimate social circle, and kept up their agreeable relations
after the St. Mary’s fashion of family dinner-parties, social
tea-drinkings, fish feasts upon the coast, fox-hunts among the
gentlemen, neighborhood dances, etc.; while the gentle, but powerful
influence emanating from Mount Calm spread the spirit of religion over
all.
Dr. and Mrs. Hutton eventually settled in a Southern State. Miss Joe
Cotter remained with them to the end of her long life. Consistent in her
economy to the very last, she devoted the remaining years of her life to
“laying up treasures in heaven.” Dr. Hutton became one of the most
celebrated physicians in the country, and amassed a large fortune. Mrs.
Hutton became one of the brightest stars in the great Southern
constellation of beauty, genius, and fashion. Their home is a beautiful
edifice on the banks of a Southern lake, within easy distance of the
city. For elegance, taste, and luxury it is scarcely excelled by the
far-famed palaces of the Old World. From his present affluent ease Dr.
Hutton delights to look back upon his early struggles, and he repeats
now, with more emphasis than before, that, “A young American should
never permit himself to depend upon the accidents of fortune for success
in life; for in our prosperous country a man of good health and good
habits need never fail to make an independence for himself and family,
and to win the blessing of God.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Grosset & Dunlap’s Popular
Series of Standard Books
* * * * *
A series of 12mos of distinctive character and appearance, comprising
judiciously selected titles, indorsed by the foremost critics, and
approved by generations of readers. Beautifully printed on fine book
paper, and handsomely bound in cloth with strikingly artistic cover
designs.
* * * * *
Price, 50 cents per volume, postpaid.
* * * * *
AESOP’S FABLES
ANDERSEN, HANS CHRISTIAN
Fairy Tales and Stories
BARRIE, J. M.
The Little Minister
BELL, J. J.
Wee Macgreegor
BESANT AND RICE
All Sorts and Conditions of Man
BRONTE, CHARLOTTE
Jane Eyre
BULWER-LYTTON
The Last Days of Pompeii
BUNYAN, JOHN
Pilgrim’s Progress
CAREY, ROSA NOUCHETTE
Aunt Diana
Averil
Merle’s Crusade
Not Like Other Girls
Only the Governess
CARROLL, LEWIS
Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. The two volumes
in one
CONNOR, RALPH
Black Rock
COOPER, J. FENIMORE
The Deerslayer
The Last of the Mohicans
The Pathfinder
The Pioneers
The Prairie
The Spy
CUMMINS, MARIA S.
The Lamplighter
CORELLI, MARIE
Thelma
A Romance of Two Worlds
DEFOE, DANIEL
Robinson Crusoe
DICKENS, CHARLES
A Tale of Two Cities
The Christmas Stories
DODGE, MARY MAPES
Hans Brinker
DOYLE, A. CONAN
Tales of Sherlock Holmes
DUMAS, ALEXANDER
Twenty Years After
The Three Guardsmen
ELIOT, GEORGE
Silas Marner
ELLIS, EDWARD S.
Life of Kit Carson
EMERSON, RALPH WALDO
Essays (1st and 2nd Series in one volume)
EVANS, AUGUSTA J.
Beulah
Inez
Macaria
St. Elmo (Special Ed.)
FOTHERGILL, JESSIE
The First Violin
GASKELL, MRS.
Cranford
GRIMM, THE BROTHERS
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
HABBERTON, JOHN
Helen’s Babies
HARRIS, MIRIAM COLES
Rutledge
HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL
The Marble Faun
The Scarlet Letter
HOLLAND, J. G.
Bitter Sweet
HOLLEY, MARIETTA
Samantha at Saratoga
HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL
Elsie Venner
HUGHES, THOMAS
Tom Brown’s School Days
Tom Brown at Oxford
INGRAHAM, REV. J. H.
The Prince of the House of David
The Pillar of Fire
The Throne of David
IRVING, WASHINGTON
The Sketch Book
LAMB, CHARLES AND MARY
Tales from Shakespeare
LANG, ANDREW
The Blue Fairy Book
The Green Fairy Book
My Own Fairy Book
The Red Fairy Book
The Yellow Fairy Book
LONGFELLOW, HENRY W.
Evangeline
Hiawatha
The Courtship of Miles Standish
MARLITT, EUGENIE
Gold Elsie
MEREDITH, OWEN
Lucile
MULOCK, MISS
The Little Lame Prince
Mulock’s Fairy Tales
OUIDA
Under Two Flags
PRENTISS, ELIZABETH PAYSON
Stepping Heavenward
READE, CHARLES
The Cloister and the Hearth
REID, CAPT. MAYNE
The Rifle Rangers
SCOTT, SIR WALTER
Ivanhoe (with notes)
Kenilworth (with notes)
SEWELL, ANNA
Black Beauty
SHELDON, REV. CHARLES M.
Crucifixion of Philip Strong
In His Steps
Robert Hardy’s Seven Days
STEVENSON, R. L.
Treasure Island
STOWE, HARRIET BEECHER
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
THOMPSON, D. P.
Green Mountain Boys
WAGNER, CHARLES
The Simple Life
WARNER, SUSAN
The Wide, Wide World
WOOD, MRS. HENRY
East Lynne
WYSS, JOHANN RUDOLF
Swiss Family Robinson
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Southworth Series
* * * * *
Comprising ten of the most popular works of Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth.
Many mothers can remember with what pleasure they pored over the
captivating novels of Mrs. Southworth when they were girls, and how
impatiently they waited from week to week for the instalments of their
favorite stories. They are read with the same eagerness by the daughters
of to-day, and will be as eagerly read by their children’s children.
They are splendid stories of American life, manners, customs and
institutions.
Attractively bound in cloth, with colored picture inlay on cover. Coated
paper wrapper, printed in colors.
* * * * *
Price, 50 cents per volume, postpaid.
* * * * *
THE CHANGED BRIDES; Or, Winning Her Way.
THE BRIDE’S FATE; Sequel to “The Changed Brides.”
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE.
TRIED FOR HER LIFE; Sequel to “Cruel as the Grave.”
THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; Or, The Children of the Isle.
THE HIDDEN HAND; Complete in one volume.
ISHMAEL; Or, In the Depths.
SELF-RAISED; Or, From the Depths. Sequel to “Ishmael.”
THE MISSING BRIDE; Or, Miriam, the Avenger.
VIVIA; Or, The Secret of Power.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The L. T. Meade Series
* * * * *
The popularity of these charming tales for girls increases as the years
go by, and the present edition we believe to be the best ever offered at
a moderate price. Thirty-nine titles—many of them copyrighted.
12 mo. Handsomely bound in cloth of bright colors with beautiful picture
inlay in full color on front cover. Coated paper wrapper, printed in
colors.
* * * * *
Price, 50 cents per volume, postpaid.
Bad Little Hannah
Bashful Fifteen
Betty: A Schoolgirl
Betty of the Rectory
Bevy of Girls, A
Bunch of Cherries, A
Children of Wilton Chase
Children’s Pilgrimage, The
Daddy’s Girl
Deb and the Duchess
Four On An Island
Gay Charmer, A
Girl in Ten Thousand, A
Girls, New and Old
Girls of Mrs. Pritchard’s School
Girls of St. Wodes, The
Girls of the True Blue
Good Luck
In Time of Roses
Light o’ the Morning
Little Mother to the Others, A
Madcap, A
Manor School, The
Merry Girls of England
Miss Nonentity
Modern Tom Boy, A
Out of the Fashion
Palace Beautiful, The
Polly: A New Fashioned Girl
Rebellion of Lil Carrington, The
Red Rose and Tiger Lily
Ring of Rubies, A
Sweet Girl Graduate, A
Temptation of Olive Latimer, The
Turquoise and Ruby
Very Naughty Girl, A
Wild Kitty
World of Girls, A
Young Mutineer, A
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Popular Novels of
MARY J. HOLMES
* * * * *
A new edition of the favorite works of this extremely popular novelist,
printed from new large type plates, on fine book paper, and attractively
bound in cloth. With colored picture inlay on cover. Coated paper
wrapper, printed in colors.
* * * * *
Price, 50 cents per volume, postpaid.
* * * * *
TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE
LENA RIVERS
THE ENGLISH ORPHANS
HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE
MAGGIE MILLER
DORA DEANE
ROSAMOND
COUSIN MAUDE
MEADOW BROOK
DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT
ETHELYN’S MISTAKE
BAD HUGH
ROSE MATHER
MARIAN GREY
MILLBANK
EDITH LYLE’S SECRET
FAMILY PRIDE
AIKENSIDE
MILDRED
THE LEIGHTON HOMESTEAD
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A FEW OF
GROSSET & DUNLAP’S
Great Books at Little Prices
* * * * *
CY WHITTAKER’S PLACE. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Illustrated by Wallace
Morgan.
A Cape Cod story describing the amusing efforts of an elderly bachelor
and his two cronies to rear and educate a little girl. Full of honest
fun—a rural drama.
THE FORGE IN THE FOREST. By Charles G. D. Roberts. Illustrated by H.
Sandham.
A story of the conflict in Acadia after its conquest by the British. A
dramatic picture that lives and shines with the indefinable charm of
poetic romance.
A SISTER TO EVANGELINE. By Charles G. D. Roberts. Illustrated by E.
McConnell.
Being the story of Yvonne de Lamourie, and how she went into exile with
the villagers of Grand Prè. Swift action, fresh atmosphere, wholesome
purity, deep passion and searching analysis characterize this strong
novel.
THE OPENED SHUTTERS. By Clara Louise Burnham. Frontispiece by Harrison
Fisher.
A summer haunt on an island in Casco Bay is the background for this
romance. A beautiful woman, at discord with life, is brought to realize,
by her new friends, that she may open the shutters of her soul to the
blessed sunlight of joy by casting aside vanity and self love. A
delicately humorous work with a lofty motive underlying it all.
THE RIGHT PRINCESS. By Clara Louise Burnham.
An amusing story, opening at a fashionable Long Island resort, where a
stately Englishwoman employs a forcible New England housekeeper to serve
in her interesting home. How types so widely apart react on each others’
lives, all to ultimate good, makes a story both humorous and rich in
sentiment.
THE LEAVEN OF LOVE. By Clara Louise Burnham. Frontispiece by Harrison
Fisher.
At a Southern California resort a world-weary woman, young and beautiful
but disillusioned, meets a girl who has learned the art of living—of
tasting life in all its richness, opulence and joy. The story hinges
upon the change wrought in the soul of the blasé woman by this glimpse
into a cheery life.
QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER. A Picture of New England Home Life. With
illustrations by C. W. Reed, and Scenes Reproduced from the Play.
One of the best New England stories ever written. It is full of homely
human interest * * * there is a wealth of New England village character,
scenes and incidents * * * forcibly, vividly and truthfully drawn. Few
books have enjoyed a greater sale and popularity. Dramatized, it made
the greatest rural play of recent times.
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER. By Charles Felton
Pidgin. Illustrated by Henry Roth.
All who love honest sentiment, quaint and sunny humor, and homespun
philosophy will find these “Further Adventures” a book after their own
heart.
HALF A CHANCE. By Frederic S. Isham. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.
The thrill of excitement will keep the reader in a state of suspense,
and he will become personally concerned from the start, as to the
central character, a very real man who suffers, dares—and achieves!
VIRGINIA OF THE AIR LANES. By Herbert Quick. Illustrated by William R.
Leigh.
The author has seized the romantic moment for the airship novel, and
created the pretty story of “a lover and his lass” contending with an
elderly relative for the monopoly of the skies. An exciting tale of
adventure in midair.
THE GAME AND THE CANDLE. By Eleanor M. Ingram. Illustrated by P. D.
Johnson.
The hero is a young American, who, to save his family from poverty,
deliberately commits a felony. Then follow his capture and imprisonment,
and his rescue by a Russian Grand Duke. A stirring story, rich in
sentiment.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A FEW OF
GROSSET & DUNLAP’S
Great Books at Little Prices
NEW, CLEVER, ENTERTAINING.
* * * * *
GRET: The Story of a Pagan. By Beatrice Mantle. Illustrated by C. M.
Relyea.
The wild free life of an Oregon lumber camp furnishes the setting for
this strong original story. Gret is the daughter of the camp and is
utterly content with the wild life—until love comes. A fine book,
unmarred by convention.
OLD CHESTER TALES. By Margaret Deland. Illustrated by Howard Pyle.
A vivid yet delicate portrayal of characters in an old New England town.
Dr. Lavendar’s fine, kindly wisdom is brought to bear upon the lives of
all, permeating the whole volume like the pungent odor of pine,
healthful and life giving. “Old Chester Tales” will surely be among the
books that abide.
THE MEMOIRS OF A BABY. By Josephine Daskam. Illustrated by F. Y. Cory.
The dawning intelligence of the baby was grappled with by its great
aunt, an elderly maiden, whose book knowledge of babies was something at
which even the infant himself winked. A delicious bit of humor.
REBECCA MARY. By Annie Hamilton Donnell. Illustrated by Elizabeth
Shippen Green.
The heart tragedies of this little girl with no one near to share them,
are told with a delicate art, a keen appreciation of the needs of the
childish heart and a humorous knowledge of the workings of the childish
mind.
THE FLY ON THE WHEEL. By Katherine Cecil Thurston. Frontispiece by
Harrison Fisher.
An Irish story of real power, perfect in development and showing a true
conception of the spirited Hibernian character as displayed in the
tragic as well as the tender phases of life.
THE MAN FROM BRODNEY’S. By George Barr McCutcheon. Illustrated by
Harrison Fisher.
An island in the South Sea is the setting for this entertaining tale,
and an all-conquering hero and a beautiful princess figure in a most
complicated plot. One of Mr. McCutcheon’s best books.
TOLD BY UNCLE REMUS. By Joel Chandler Harris. Illustrated by A. B.
Frost, J. M. Conde and Frank Verbeck.
Again Uncle Remus enters the fields of childhood, and leads another
little boy to that non-locatable land called “Brer Rabbit’s Laughing
Place,” and again the quaint animals spring into active life and play
their parts, for the edification of a small but appreciative audience.
THE CLIMBER. By E. F. Benson. With frontispiece.
An unsparing analysis of an ambitious woman’s soul—a woman who believed
that in social supremacy she would find happiness, and who finds instead
the utter despair of one who has chosen the things that pass away.
LYNCH’S DAUGHTER. By Leonard Merrick. Illustrated by Geo. Brehm.
A story of to-day, telling how a rich girl acquires ideals of beautiful
and simple living, and of men and love, quite apart from the teachings
of her father, “Old Man Lynch” of Wall St. True to life, clever in
treatment.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
GROSSET & DUNLAP’S
DRAMATIZED NOVELS
A Few that are Making Theatrical History
* * * * *
MARY JANE’S PA. By Norman Way. Illustrated with scenes from the play.
Delightful, irresponsible “Mary Jane’s Pa” awakes one morning to find
himself famous, and, genius being ill adapted to domestic joys, he
wanders from home to work out his own unique destiny. One of the most
humorous bits of recent fiction.
CHERUB DEVINE. By Sewell Ford.
“Cherub,” a good hearted but not over refined young man is brought in
touch with the aristocracy. Of sprightly wit, he is sometimes a
merciless analyst, but he proves in the end that manhood counts for more
than ancient lineage by winning the love of the fairest girl in the
flock.
A WOMAN’S WAY. By Charles Somerville. Illustrated with scenes from the
play.
A story in which a woman’s wit and self-sacrificing love save her
husband from the toils of an adventuress, and change an apparently
tragic situation into one of delicious comedy.
THE CLIMAX. By George C. Jenks.
With ambition luring her on, a young choir soprano leaves the little
village where she was born and the limited audience of St. Jude’s to
train for the opera in New York. She leaves love behind her and meets
love more ardent but not more sincere in her new environment. How she
works, how she studies, how she suffers, are vividly portrayed.
A FOOL THERE WAS. By Porter Emerson Browne. Illustrated by Edmund
Magrath and W. W. Fawcett.
A relentless portrayal of the career of a man who comes under the
influence of a beautiful but evil woman; how she lures him on and on,
how he struggles, falls and rises, only to fall again into her net, make
a story of unflinching realism.
THE SQUAW MAN. By Julie Opp Faversham and Edwin Milton Royle.
Illustrated with scenes from the play.
A glowing story, rapid in action, bright in dialogue with a fine
courageous hero and a beautiful English heroine.
THE GIRL IN WAITING. By Archibald Fyre. Illustrated with scenes from
the play.
A droll little comedy of misunderstandings, told with a light touch, a
venturesome spirit and an eye for human oddities.
The Scarlet Pimpernel. By Baroness Orczy. Illustrated with scenes from
the play.
A realistic story of the days of the French Revolution, abounding in
dramatic incident, with a young English soldier of fortune, daring,
mysterious as the hero.
* * * * *
GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.