PAID IN FULL.
"I feel like myself," said Lambert to his host, a few days after the
encounter above recorded. "I'll go down to Denham to-morrow, and get my
interview with Deering over."
"I am not at all sure you are equal to it, Lambert; you are feverish
and excited. Why not wait till he comes up to town?"
"Because I'd feel safer in the country. That fellow is just traitor
enough to keep me in talk while he sent for a constable, and made a
charge of murder against me. Constables are not so near at hand in the
country."
"I think you are mistaken; I don't fancy Deering will cut off his nose
to spite his face."
"It's hard to tell. Anyhow I'll try him. I suppose there is some
village or town near where a man could put up?"
"There is a village at Denham, I believe, but the railway-station is
five or six miles off, I am told, at a town called Earlshall, where no
doubt you will find accommodation. I wish you would leave the matter in
my hands, Lambert."
"That I cannot; but I think I am sufficiently backed up now to make
terms with him."
"I wish you could carry the war into the enemy's country, but that
without witnesses would be impossible," returned Glynn. "Make the best
terms you can. I agree with you in thinking that no amount of wealth
could atone for shocking and grieving Elsie."
"Nothing could!" ejaculated Lambert. "And suppose I am hanged, will you
be true to my darling?"
"Yes, even if I believed you guilty of murder, I would stick to her!"
Lambert seized and pressed his hand, and after a moment's silence
resumed:
"I'll go and sleep at my own place to-night; it's nearer the Great
Northern, and I'll start off to-morrow morning. Maybe I'll be lucky,
hey?" He pulled out Elsie's last letter and read it through in silence.
"She is happy anyway, but she's wearying for her old dad! God bless
her! God bless her, and watch over her!"--with a burst of feeling. "The
blessing of a vagabond like myself isn't worth much, but there it is.
Maybe but for me she'd be a great lady now, and holding her own in the
sight of all men."
"And perhaps but for you she would be in her grave, or struggling in
poverty and degradation," said Glynn.
"Who can tell?" rejoined the other, and he left the room to prepare for
his return to his own abode.
"I'll not write to you, Glynn," were his last words at starting; "I'll
just come straight back and tell you everything."
"Do; and remember that the bolder front you can show, the greater the
chance of his yielding. Speak as if you had a cloud of witnesses to
back you."
"Ay, that's the plan! I'll try it, if only my nerves keep as steady as
they feel to-day."
* * * * *
The chief inn of Earlshall, a small town on the borders of Northshire,
was full and busy one morning in May, more than twelve months from the
opening of this true history. It was market-day, and the coffee-room
resounded with the loud voices and creaking boots of the neighboring
farmers, who had looked in for a mouthful and "a drop of drink"
somewhat stronger than coffee.
The stables were full of strong, serviceable nags, worthy of the shire
which bred them, and the busy hostlers had scarce time to attend to the
demand of a stranger, who had been staying for the last two days at the
inn, that one or other of them should saddle the horse he had ridden
each day since he arrived.
"Hand it over to me, and I'll saddle him myself," he said at length.
"I am no fool about a horse, and can generally manage all I want with
my own hands." So saying, he proceeded to saddle the steed he had
selected, and soon trotted out of the yard.
A stranger was a novelty at Earlshall, and several inquiries were
addressed to "mine host," who mixed on pleasant, easy terms with his
guests. "The visitor was from 'Lunnon' or from furrin parts." But he
knew a horse when he saw one; he had been over to Denham all day long;
the landlord's opinion was that likely he came from a newspaper, and he
hoped as how he would write up the 'Black Horse.' There was a letter
for him that morning from Denham. "I know the paper and the crest
stamped outside," added the host; "I dare say he's an electioneering
chap."
Unconscious of these comments Lambert rode on, with a grey, set face,
and firmly-closed mouth. The letter he had received that morning had
been brief:--"I will hear what you have to say, but I do not wish a
criminal to cross my threshold. You must meet me by the Deer's Barn
in the Beech Wood, about a mile from the village. Any one will direct
you." This had no signature, and was addressed to "Mr. Smith." Lambert
took it out and read it, gnashing his teeth as he did so.
"The insolent, daring villain," he muttered; "can I do nothing to turn
his flank? If he had a gleam of conscience he would be less daringly
unscrupulous, but he hasn't enough to make a coward of him. Glynn is my
best card, but Deering knows his strength; he has only to lie boldly,
and I am at his mercy. But he'll never get hold of _her_: she is safe
from him." Then his thoughts wandered away to a bit of country near
Mrs. Kellett's home, where in some of his many visits to his darling
daughter, he had led her little Welsh pony, while she talked to him
of her own simple fancies--of her dearly loved pets, of the wild
flowers, and birds, and insects, all of which were so familiar to the
country-bred child. What a foretaste of heaven it all was! No soiled
sinner purified by purgatorial fires and admitted into the divine calm
of celestial joy could have felt more keenly the sense of regeneration
and revival than the poor battered wanderer who had devoted himself
to the care of his enemy's orphan; and now, as he reflected that he
had brought misfortune to the creature he so fondly loved, that he had
unconsciously put her and himself into the power of a bold scoundrel,
his heart throbbed with fury so wild, so overpowering, that he was
almost alarmed at himself.
"I must keep my brain clear," he muttered. "I wish I could get quit of
this mad desire to shoot Deering,--it wouldn't do,--it wouldn't do.
I could never stroll through cool country lanes with my Elsie again;
I never could stroke her bright hair with this right hand if it had
committed murder. _That_ I have never done. No, Deering, you infernal
liar, never!--only in fair fight have I killed my man."
He stopped with an odd sense of confusion, finding that he spoke aloud.
His horse stumbling at the same time, the current of his thoughts
changed. He began to look forward. Elsie and Glynn were married;
they had a beautiful home in London, and he (Lambert) a snug little
apartment in Paris--he was more at home in Paris--and they visited
each other. Then as years stole on, and he didn't care to move about
much, he would sit in his chair, and Elsie would soothe him with her
heavenly songs, her delicious voice. Ah well, he might bring Deering
to reason; if not, well, he could never meet Elsie's eyes when opened
to the knowledge of deeds hidden away in his past life. Anyhow he must
commit no act of violence; this 'must not' but thinly veiled a strange
kind of conviction that something beyond himself would compel him to do
a desperate deed.
When he reached the very humble little hostelry distinguished by the
sign of the 'Saracen's Head,' the crest of the Deerings, which stood
beside the village green of Denham, Lambert was cool and collected
enough. He dismounted, and desired that his horse should be given a
feed of oats, that the girths should be loosened, but the saddle was
not to be removed, "for," said he very deliberately, "I want to finish
a sketch of the Deer's Barn, and get back to catch the up-train at
Earlshall about six, so I may want the horse all in a hurry."
So saying, he walked quietly through the great old wrought-iron gates,
and up the stately avenue for a few hundred yards. Then striking to
the left, he quickened his pace, and plunged into the beautiful woods
all flushed with the first tender green of spring, trampling down the
great feathery fronds of the fern, the variously-tinted leafage of
the undergrowth, till he reached an open space, from which a heath
and gorse-grown upland sloped gently towards some distant hills. And
all these grand woods, this beautiful sweep of hills, these groups
of dappled deer, that murmuring brown stream, the solemn, stately
beeches that clustered round the barn which stood at the verge of the
deer-park,--all these were Elsie's; and as he thought, Travers Deering
came out from the shadow of the rough, picturesque edifice and advanced
to meet him.
The two men came face to face, a little in the rear of the barn, and
stood in silence for a few seconds, eyeing each other with deadly
hatred; nor was the gaze of the unscrupulous villain a shade less
steady or unflinching than that of the man he intended to make his
victim.
"Pray why have you taken the trouble to come down here, when you might
have seen me in town next week?" asked Deering coolly.
"For various reasons, chiefly because I could not wait."
"Then you have something important, something favorable for yourself to
propose. First, where is Elsie? You know?"
"I do."
"Is she in England?"
"No."
"Will you tell me where she is?"
"I will further on."
"Very good. Let me hear what you have to say," taking out a cigar, and
striking a fusee he lit it with elaborate composure.
"I succeeded in hiding myself and my child from you and your devilish
designs," began Lambert in a voice that vibrated with the anger he
could hardly control; "and if I had not been struck down by illness, my
girl and I would have been out of your reach at the other side of the
world. However, I couldn't carry out my plans, and I know one cannot
keep out of sight forever, so I made up my mind to see if we can't come
to an agreement. Let us go, and I'll never say a word against you, or
meddle in any way."
"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" returned Deering
contemptuously. "I thought you had something new."
"So I have! I have found a man who believes my story, and he is a
backer not to be despised."
"And he is?" asked Deering, without taking his cigar from his lips.
"Glynn! You know him."
"Ha! and he believes your little romance?"--a look of concentrated fury
contracting his brow. "Satisfactory to _you_; but unfortunately men's
beliefs are not evidence. Now I have positive evidence."
"Deering!--you are the most accursed scoundrel that ever disgraced
God's earth! Were it not for my child, I'd gladly pay forfeit with my
life for the pleasure of killing you."
"I dare say! Knowing my man, I am not such a blockhead as to come here
unarmed," and he made a motion with his hand to his breast-pocket.
"Good," cried Lambert, and he laughed a peculiar wild laugh. "But this
is nonsense," he resumed; "let us talk like reasonable beings. Just see
what folly it is to throw away fortune, and all this"--waving his hand
towards the trees and upland--"for what?--a whim, a bit of revenge!
When you have destroyed me, and planted a thorn in Elsie's heart
that'll pierce her through her life long--for you _can_ do that, though
she's beyond your power to harm more--how will you like to turn out of
this grand place, and count every penny in your pocket?"
"I don't intend to do either; I shall be rewarded for my disinterested
honesty by keeping the estate for my life. My son, a mere helpless
cripple, can exist on a trifle; my lady wife is only half alive as it
is, and probably may resign the frail half she possesses before long,
then I may marry my sweet cousin, and all will go well and happily when
we have hung _you_, you blundering blackguard"--with a sudden flash of
rage and hatred.
"Gently," said Lambert, thinking the moment was come to play his trump
card. "You'll not be able to carry out your neat little scheme. My
Elsie is engaged to Glynn, and will be his wife before three weeks are
over. She is staying with Lady Gethin until the wedding takes place!"
Deering was moved at last; he started back.
"What! has Glynn known your secret during----"
"The last month, and more," interrupted Lambert.
"And Lady Gethin?--is _she_ equally well informed?"
"She is."
Deering grew deadly white; his sharp, cruel-looking teeth pressed his
under lip for a moment of silence before he burst out:--"Infernal
idiot! you have driven the last nail into your own coffin. Elsie,
Glynn's wife! I'd strangle her with my own hands first! You have
left me no alternative. I must in mere self-defence attack _you_.
You have shattered your own safeguard! If you have told Glynn and
that sharp-tongued old woman, I must not keep quiet any longer. Their
credulity does not weaken my position; it is impregnable, _if_ I have
pluck enough to stand to my guns, _which I have_! You have left me
nothing but revenge, and I'll have _that_. Who will believe a word you
utter? I'll make your visit here the starting-point of my accusation.
You have come to extract money! and threaten me with the claims of
Gilbert Deering's daughter. I, having always suspected you, and having
recently met Vincent and heard his story, I lay the matter before a
magistrate, both to obtain and bestow justice. Then let Glynn marry the
_protégée_ of a disgraced, detected criminal if he will, nothing shall
save _you_ from appearing in Elsie's eyes as the murderer of her own
father, the destroyer of her life. There! I tell you my plan; repeat
it or not as you choose. Your words, your story, your very existence
are in vain. I have but to be firm, and you go to a dishonored grave,
followed by the horror and disgust of the creature on whom you spent
your life!--ay! who, rejected by Glynn, will yet be mine."
Lambert had listened with a wild mingling of fury and despair. He gazed
at Deering to see if there was any sign of faltering, of hesitation,
but the leader of the rebel angels himself could not have looked more
determined to "make evil his good." Contempt as well as hatred gleamed
from his fierce light eyes, a sudden sense that all hope was over, that
a dark cloud streaked with blood was already rising between him and his
darling, his jewel, pressed with maddening force upon Lambert.
Deering misunderstood his momentary stunned silence, and added with a
sneer: "I am master of your fate. Find a way out of the dilemma if you
can."
"There is _one_ way left," cried Lambert hoarsely; and snatching a
revolver from his breast-pocket, he fired almost before he ceased to
speak.
The ball pierced Deering's right temple. With a groan he fell to the
ground, dead, helpless, harmless!
Lambert stood quite still for an instant, his pistol still held out,
waiting lest Deering might rise and attack him, but his enemy was
quieted forever. Lambert then put up his own weapon carefully, and
bending over the prostrate form, took out the pocket-revolver to which
Deering had alluded. Examining it he found the six chambers loaded,
then aiming low into the brushwood, he discharged one of them, and laid
the pistol at a short distance from the dead man's outstretched right
arm, as though it had fallen from his hand: all this with singular
mechanical deliberateness. Then he turned and walked briskly, not
hurriedly, back to the little inn.
A great deadly calm had fallen upon him. There was no more danger from
Deering, nothing to fear from his vile projects; but he, Lambert, had
died too, he had done that of which he dreaded being falsely accused.
He had done with life, but at least he had cleared a venomous beast out
of his darling's path; nothing now remained but to efface himself.
"None will ever know the exact truth, and my jewel will always believe
the best of me; time will heal up her wounds, ay, soon, soon." He
paused and looked round him. How beautiful the country looked; how
sweet the air, laden with the odor of violets and fresh grass! He had
loved life, and enjoyed it, and done his best in his own rough way, and
now he firmly believed he was doing his best still. No horror at his
own act thrilled him; he had but executed wild justice. His thoughts
grew strangely confused. He fancied at intervals he was going back to
Paris to his little home there, and that he would find Elsie at the
piano, and Madame Weber knitting. Then he would pull himself together,
and think hard of a certain plan he was trying to mature.
Reaching the little inn he called for his horse, and asked for a glass
of ale.
"You'll have to ride sharp," said the landlord, as Lambert paid his
bill. "I thought you wouldn't be back in time; that's what you artist
gentlemen don't think of. We've lots of 'em sketching about Denham
woods in summer-time."
"Ah! few have done so complete a bit of work as I have," returned
Lambert grimly, as he started at a quick trot.
His horse was fresh and free, and did the distance to Earlshall within
the time allowed by his rider. The hostler remarked that the gentleman
must have been took ill or summat, he had such a ghastly, dazed look in
his face. "Anyway, he did not forget to tip me handsome afore he ran
off to catch the train."
Meantime the first and second dressing-bells rang in Denham House, but
the master did not come in from the walk he had evidently prolonged.
Weldon had come over to dine and discuss business with his employer,
and endeavored to keep up a conversation with Lady Frances, sitting in
state in the grand solemn drawing-room. The dinner-hour was long past,
and Lady Frances grew uneasy. Deering's valet was called, but could
give no explanation of his master's absence. Night closed in while
search was being made, and then a cold and rigid figure, that a few
hours ago was the lord and master of Denham, was brought reverently
back, carried by the gamekeepers and gardeners, and followed by the
awe-struck men who had assisted in the search. The revolver, which
had apparently fallen from his hand, was recognized by the valet as
belonging to his master; indeed he saw it in its accustomed place that
very morning. Yet neither Lady Frances or Weldon could accept the idea
of suicide. He was so active, so full of schemes, so instinct with
life. But there was the incontrovertible fact--Deering of Denham was no
more, and Bertie his son reigned in his stead.
* * * * *
Away by the beautiful shores of Lake Leman Elsie Lambert enjoyed a
growing sense of security. Lady Gethin was a strong protectress.
Lambert wrote cheerfully, and seemed to enjoy his visit to Glynn;
and the latter's frequent letters were an ever-increasing source of
delight, while it was an ennobling education, in Elsie's estimation,
to answer them. With Lady Gethin she grew in favor day by day; her
thoughtful softness, her delight in learning, and her delicious voice
charmed the somewhat _exigeant_ dowager. Again and again she vowed
to herself that she would never rest till she had won back that dear
girl's rights, and exposed Deering. "I believe every word that good
soul Lambert says," was the general climax of her meditations.
Lady Gethin was pondering these things one day as she sat, after
luncheon, on the delightful balcony of their hotel overlooking the lake.
She had begun to speculate when Glynn would join them, and what
preliminary arrangements would be necessary previous to the wedding,
which she hoped would soon take place. The approach of a waiter
disturbed her. He brought a telegram. It was from Glynn. "Keep all
newspapers, especially English ones, from Elsie; will be with you on
Wednesday."
"There is something dreadfully wrong," said Lady Gethin to herself,
"and the wrong is with Lambert. I trust the poor man's head hasn't
turned with all his troubles. I hope Hugh will write. This is Saturday:
one, two, three days to wait and hold my tongue. Why, it is more than
human nature can endure."
But though carefully keeping the papers from her young _protégée_, no
very difficult task, Lady Gethin searched them diligently herself, and
soon found the word of the riddle, first in a column headed "Mysterious
Death of Mr. Deering of Denham," followed by all particulars, and an
account of the stranger artist, who had been sketching in Denham woods,
and had, according to the evidence of the hotel-keeper at Earlshall,
received a letter with the Deering crest the day previous to the fatal
event.
In another column was an account of a robbery and murder in a
railway-carriage between York and London. On reaching an intermediate
station, one of the carriages of the up-train was found open and
empty, the door swinging to and fro, while the cushion beside it was
smeared as if something bleeding had knocked against it. The carpet was
displaced, and some sovereigns and loose silver scattered about.
On search being made, the body of a middle-aged man, well dressed, and
apparently in good circumstances, was found lying beside the rails some
miles back, his head and face shattered, his pockets turned inside out,
and at a little distance lay an American revolver. His purse was gone,
but a valuable watch was still in his pocket, and an old envelope, with
an American stamp, addressed, "M. Lambert, Rue de L'Evêque, Paris," was
the only clue to his identity.
After reading these ghastly details, Lady Gethin spent an anxious and
miserable time until Glynn appeared. He had sent a hasty line to Elsie,
to say he was trying to clear away an accumulation of business in order
to be with her on Wednesday.
"I suppose my father will come with him? It is strange he does not
mention him. Nor has my father written for several days," said Elsie.
"Oh! Hugh will explain everything when he comes," replied Lady Gethin;
who immediately after declared she had a sick headache, and retired to
bed, to avoid the distressing sight of Elsie's unconscious content.
Lady Gethin contrived to impress Elsie with the idea that Glynn would
not arrive till late in the evening, and so managed to secure a short
interview with him before he went in to break his sad news to the
orphan.
He looked ill and worn.
"Oh, Hugh! what an awful business," exclaimed Lady Gethin.
"A profound tragedy," he returned. "To _you_ I may venture to confess
my belief that Lambert first shot Deering and then blew his own brains
out. He couldn't have been recognized, poor fellow! His head was so
shattered, and the curious thing is, he had on different clothes from
any I had ever seen him in. I suspect he bought them somewhere between
Earlshall and London. It was the day after Deering's murder Lambert
destroyed himself. I have been expecting every day to find that he has
been identified in some way with the artist who spent a couple of days
sketching at Denham. Of course the watch and a ring, and the man's
figure generally, were enough for me. _I_ knew who he was fast enough.
I attended the examination, and gave my evidence frankly. Nothing was
said about Deering. Now let me go to Elsie! I both long and dread to
see her."
Lady Gethin led him up-stairs to their private sitting-room, and said,
"Elsie dear, here is Hugh sooner than we expected him," and discreetly
closed the door.
Glynn paused just within it, and gave himself one moment of delighted
contemplation, as Elsie sprang forward to greet him. She wore a dress
of soft grey, and a deep red rose, with its green leaves, at her
throat. The evening sun lit up the golden sheen of her hair; she had
color in her cheek; the light of joy in her eyes; and he had come to
darken all.
"Oh! you have come at last!" she cried, forgetting for one brief moment
even her father.
"My Elsie, my love, my life!" he exclaimed, clasping her closely to
him, while his heart throbbed with sympathy and sorrow. At the sound
of his voice she drew back and looked intently in his face. "Ah! you
have brought bad news. My father--he is ill?--he is dead?" A short,
breathless pause between each question.
"He is," returned Glynn, solemnly gathering her again to his heart. "He
is at peace, and I must be husband and father both to you, my darling."
"Oh, no, no! not dead!" she cried piteously. "I may see him once more.
He will speak to me again. Take me to him, dear Hugh!" Breaking away
from him: "Let us go at once."
"It would be of no avail, dearest!--you could not even recognize him!"
"How! why! Why did you not send for me when he was ill?"
"But he was not ill, darling! He was killed on the railway; he must
have leant against the door of the carriage, and it probably flew open.
He fell, and it is supposed was instantaneously killed."
"Shall I never, never see him again? It is too cruel!" She wrung her
hands and looked despairingly round her; then with a sharp cry threw
herself into his arms, and an agony of tears came to her relief.
* * * * *
With infinite care and tenderness Glynn soothed the poignancy of her
first grief, and soon persuaded her she could show no better respect
for the dear dead than by fulfilling engagements to which he had
agreed. Some months later, therefore, a very quiet wedding took place
at Lady Gethin's residence. Glynn's clerical cousin from Clapham and
the faithful Mrs. Kellett were the only guests, and gradually time and
tranquillity healed the wound which death had inflicted.
But Lambert lived ever tenderly cherished in his daughter's memory, and
Glynn found that the best comfort he could give his young wife was by
describing the cheerfulness and returning sense of enjoyment displayed
by her father during the time he spent with his intended son-in-law.
The mortal agony that darkened his last hours she never knew. Even
when in the course of time she was obliged to believe she was not his
daughter, her sense of loving gratitude was only deepened and exalted.
* * * * *
Ten years later. Scene: a reception at Lady Frances Verner's. Speakers:
a well-known dowager and a nephew just returned from India, whom she is
lionizing.
"Yes; Lady Frances is very handsome, and has a good deal of quiet
animation. She was the widow of that poor Deering of Denham, who shot
himself some years ago. That stout, broad-shouldered man with the blue
ribbon is Admiral Verner, and the pale, delicate-looking lad--talking
to Madame Ronika, the great violinist--is young Deering, who writes
such beautiful poetry."
"Who is that distinguished-looking woman--the smaller of the two
talking to Admiral Verner? She has such a sweet, pensive face, and
great blue eyes."
"Oh, you mean Mrs. Glynn. She is greatly admired by artists and those
sort of people, and has _such_ a romantic history. Her father was
murdered by the Indians or the Kaffirs; she was saved by a Yankee
gold-digger. _He_ brought her up in the Rocky Mountains among an
awfully lawless set of men. Then he took her to Paris, and I believe
she was to come out as the daughter of the Incas, in a ballet or some
such thing, when Glynn saw her and married her, which seemed rather
idiotic. However, old Lady Gethin recognized her remarkable likeness
to a dear friend who married Gilbert Deering, and whose daughter
she proved to be. Then they found the nurse to whom the Yankee had
given her, so the Deerings thought it better to come to an amicable
settlement. Lady Frances keeps her dower, and young Deering the estates
for his life; but this charming Mrs. Glynn, or her son, will succeed
him. They are great friends. What splendid diamonds she has!"
"Well!" exclaimed the Indian nephew, "truth really is stranger than
fiction."
* * * * *
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nourishing under the misnomer of literature."--_Western Bookseller._
"Mrs. Wilcox takes her raptures with a full heart, reveling in blisses
and draining sorrows deeply; not morbidly but hopefully. Skeptic as she
is of all formal creeds, she does not become cynical or pessimistic,
but makes a glad religion out of evolution and human fellowship."--_New
York Daily News._
POEMS OF PASSION.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox is known as the greatest living poet of passion. To
her the human heart seems to have revealed its mysteries, for she has
the power to picture love in all its moods and variations as no other
has done since Byron.
"Only a woman of genius could produce such a remarkable
work."--_Illustrated London News._
Beside many others, there are some fifty poems which treat entirely
of that emotion which has been denominated "the grand passion"--love.
Among the most popular poems in the book are _Delilah_, _Ad Finem_,
_Conversion_, and _Communism_. These vibrant poems have attained a
reputation that is above and beyond criticism.
"Her name is a household word. Her great power lies in depicting human
emotions; and in handling that grandest of all passions--love, she
wields the pen of a master."--_Saturday Record._
Many thousands of the book have been issued in the plain edition. The
author's numerous admirers called for a _de luxe_ impression, and in
the New Illustrated Edition the demand is met by a
_BEAUTIFULLY PRODUCED AND CHARMINGLY EMBELLISHED EDITION_
certain to satisfy the most fastidious taste. In its new form, the book
is sure to find additional favor.
EVERYDAY THOUGHTS--In Prose and Verse.
Her latest, largest, and greatest prose work. This brilliant work
consists of a series of forceful, logical, and fascinating "talks" to
every member of the household, in which the author fearlessly, but with
delicacy, discusses everyday subjects, and directs attention to those
evils which menace the peace and safety of the home. "_Everyday
Thoughts_" is not a mere book of advice, neither does it attempt to
preach, but it contains more good counsel and wholesome moral lessons
than are to be found in the average sermon.
"These thoughts, lofty and uplifting, are stated with virility, both
in prose and verse. The noble sentiments expressed in this volume will
widen the circle of her admirers."--_Rochester Times._
"Few people are so good as not to be made better by a studious perusal
of this useful and interesting book, which is, in brief, a short and
vigorous dissertation on moral conduct and the springs of right living.
Mrs. Wilcox's latest publication is a worthy addition to the best works
of moral philosophy and her treatise deserves wide reading."--_New York
Daily News._
KINGDOM OF LOVE, AND OTHER POEMS.
_A magnificent collection of poems suitable for recitations and
readings, true to the very best there is in human nature._
In the preface to this collection, the author says: "I am constantly
urged by readers and impersonators to furnish them with verses for
recitation. In response to this ever-increasing demand, I have selected
for this volume the poems which seem suitable for such a purpose. In
making my collection of them, I have been obliged to use, not those
which are among my best efforts in a literary or artistic sense, but
those which contain the best dramatic possibilities for professionals."
"Her fame has reached all parts of the world, and her popularity seems
to grow with each succeeding year."--_American Bookseller._
AN AMBITIOUS MAN--Prose.
A realistic novel of the modern school of fiction. Although the plot
borders on the sensational, the motive of the story is a good one.
It teaches that hereditary tendencies can be overcome; that one can
conquer passion and impulse by the use of the Divine inheritance of
Will, and compel public respect by lofty ideals; in other words,
that one may rise on the "stepping-stones of a dead self to higher
things." Mrs. Wilcox is a successful novel writer as well as a poet,
and this story is another evidence of her wide range of thought. "In
'An Ambitious Man' the central figure is a woman, who becomes chastened
through suffering and purified through sin."
"Vivid realism stands forth from every page of this fascinating and
interesting book."--_Every Day._
AN ERRING WOMAN'S LOVE.
There is always a fascination in Mrs. Wilcox's verse, but in these
beautiful examples of her genius she shows a wonderful knowledge of the
human heart.
"Ella Wheeler Wilcox has impressed many thousands of people with the
extreme beauty of her philosophy and the exceeding usefulness of her
point of view."--_Boston Globe._
"Mrs. Wilcox stands at the head of feminine writers, and her verses and
essays are more widely copied and read than those of any other American
literary woman."--_New York World._ "Power and pathos characterize this
magnificent poem. A deep understanding of life and an intense sympathy
are beautifully expressed."--_Chicago Tribune._
MEN, WOMEN AND EMOTIONS.
A skilful analysis of social habits, customs and follies. A
common-sense view of life from its varied standpoints ... full of sage
advice.
"These essays tend to meet difficulties that arise in almost every
life.... Full of sound and helpful admonition, and is sure to
assist in smoothing the rough ways of life wherever it be read and
heeded."--_Pittsburg Times._
THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF NOD.
A collection of poems, songs, stories, and allegories dealing with
child life. The work is profusely illustrated with dainty line
engravings and photographs from life.
"The delight of the nursery; the foremost baby's book in the
world."--_N. O. Picayune._
W. B. CONKEY COMPANY, Hammond, Indiana