LORD BEAUDEVERE’S STORY TOLD BY A CHRISTMAS FIRESIDE.
Right well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had rolled,
And brought blithe Christmas back again
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honor to the holy night.
On Christmas eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas eve the hymns were sung;
All hailed with uncontrolled delight
And general voice the happy night
That to the cottage as the crown
Brought tidings of salvation down.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
It was Christmas Eve.
In the great hall of Cloudland a huge wood fire was burning. From the
lofty oak ceiling, dark and polished by time and not by art, the ancient
iron cresset swung and lighted a scene that might have belonged to the
ninth rather than to the nineteenth century.
This hall was the most ancient part of the building. Klodd, the Saxon,
with his rude boors, had feasted there long before it passed into the
hands of his conqueror, John or Jean Beaue, the groom of Norman William
and the ancestor of the Barons Beaudevere.
Through all the restorations, enlargements and modern improvements of
the castle, the barons had never allowed this hall to be touched, except
in one particular:—in the reign of one of the earlier Henries the great
chimney at the farther end opposite the door had been built. And ever
since that time, at Christmas-tide, the yule log had been yearly drawn
in and laid on the back of the immense cavernous fireplace, and the
baron’s family had there gathered around the Christmas fire.
It was a weird, ghostly, yet interesting and fascinating scene.
The heavy stone walls were decorated with stags’ antlers, and other
trophies of the chase, and hung with ancient armor and weapons, and
looked as if they were haunted by the forms of old knights—
“Whose swords were rust,
Whose bones were dust;
Whose souls were with
The Lord, we trust.”
It was furnished with heavy oaken tables, chairs and settles, before
which were laid, in lieu of rugs, well-tanned skins of leopards, bears
and buffaloes.
Never in all the centuries had lain so huge a yule log or blazed so
splendid a fire as this that burned in the ancient chimney-place and
lighted the old hall.
A historical oak, a marvel of age and size, had stood in the Cloudland
forest from time immemorial. It had long ceased to show a leaf in
summer, and every winter its dry twigs rattled and fell with every
blast.
In the preceding summer a thunderbolt had blasted the patriarch of
centuries. Then the baron’s steward had ordered the riven giant limbs to
be cut and sawed and given away by cords of wood to the poor on the
estate, and the huge hole to be trimmed and carted to the castle for the
yule log.
Now it was blazing in the broad fireplace of the castle hall, and around
it were gathered a group consisting of Lord Beaudevere, Lady Arielle
Montjoie, Miss Desparde, and Mr. Valdimir Desparde.
The order to serve dinner was given, and in a few moments it was
announced.
Lord Beaudevere gave his arm to Lady Arielle, and Valdimir to his
sister, and so they went into the dining-room and enjoyed a very good
meal.
After dinner they adjourned to the hall, gathered around the great fire,
seated themselves on the old oaken chairs, and, with their feet upon the
lion’s skin that did duty for a rug, began to talk of Christmas times,
ancient as well as modern—a theme suggested by the surroundings as well
as by the season.
It was noticeable that this talk was chiefly among the three young
people, and that Lord Beaudevere gave brief and often eccentric answers
to questions and remarks addressed to him. He seemed troubled and
abstracted.
Presently, in the lull of the conversation, he said:
“I think, my young friends, that the hour has come when I must tell you
that passage in my early history which, from morbid sensitiveness, I
have hitherto kept from you.”
Lady Arielle, feeling that this address was made to Valdimir and
Vivienne, and that the story to be told concerned them, arose quietly to
steal away from the hall.
But Lord Beaudevere stopped her with a word:
“Stay! Resume your seat, Lady Arielle. This interests you as well as
ourselves. Are you not one of us?”
The young lady sat down again gladly, for, in truth, she was as curious
as any one to hear the story of Lord Beaudevere’s early life, as it
affected her betrothed husband and his sister.
Lord Beaudevere passed his hand once and again over his thoughtful and
troubled brow, then smiled on the expectant circle, and began:
BEAUE’S LITTLE ROMANCE.
“My father, the late baron, had but one son and no daughter. He lost my
mother when I was but a few months old, and he never gave her a
successor. It followed that my earliest idea of my mother was of an
angel in heaven.
“I had, therefore, neither brother nor sister, but in place of both—in
place of all childish companions—I had my little cousin, my father’s
orphan niece, whom he had adopted for the sake of his dear lost sister.
“We were of the same age, and as much attached to each other as any twin
pair that ever lived. The nurses used to call us the ‘love birds.’
“We shared the same nursery until we were five years old, when we were
separated. That was the first sorrow of my life, and you will laugh, my
lad and lasses, when I tell you it was one of my sharpest.
“But think of it! I had never, within my memory, gone to sleep except
with my arms around Vivi’s neck, or hers around mine. So I cried all
night in my lonesome crib, and so had she in hers, as I learned when I
met her at the nursery breakfast the next morning—met her with as much
joy as if we had been parted for years instead of for hours!
“We still shared the same day nursery, and the same lessons under our
young nursery governess, until we were seven years old, when a more
accomplished teacher took charge of us, a lady, who conducted our
education for the next three years.
“Then came another trial, and we were separated by day as well as by
night. A tutor was engaged for me and I took my lessons in a room off my
father’s library instead of in the school-room, which was given up now
to Vivi and her governess.
“But still we met at meal times, where we also enjoyed the society and
surveillance of the tutor and governess. And so two more years passed
away, and I had to go to Eton. I pass over that parting. I do not
suppose that any school-boy in existence ever behaved so badly as I did
on leaving home; it was all because I was leaving Vivi.
“But if any boy ever carries anything sentimental or mawkish to Eton
College it is bound to be knocked and cuffed out of him, mind you. To
say nothing of my studies, which really did engage and interest my mind,
I had fights enough on my hands to employ all my leisure time and keep
me from pining after Vivi.
“But when the holidays drew near all my slumbering love was re-awakened,
and I thought of nothing but of going home and meeting Vivi.
“And every time I went home and saw her she seemed more beautiful than
ever, and I loved her more.
“I spent four years at Eton, and then came home for a visit previous to
entering the university at Oxford.
“I was then a mere stripling of sixteen, _not_ tall for my age—quite the
reverse—for I was of slow growth, and no taller nor stouter than many a
boy of thirteen.
“I came home and found Vivi, at sixteen years of age, shot up into a
beautiful and blooming young woman, a head taller than myself. This was
mortifying to me, especially as she assumed the airs of a woman and
treated me as a child.
“I was in despair until certain news reached us from India. The letters
and documents came just a few days before I was to have left home for
Oxford to enter Trinity College—where, by the way, all my forefathers
and uncles have been educated since the college was founded.
“The news was that our uncle—my father’s and Vivi’s mother’s brother—a
wealthy merchant of Calcutta, had died unmarried, and left the whole of
his immense wealth to his sole nephew, John Beaue, and sole niece,
Vivienne Leville—share and share alike—upon one condition—that they
should marry each other. But if either one should refuse to marry the
other, the party so refusing should forfeit all share in the estate,
which should then go undivided to the party refused, with the further
condition that the last inheritor should have no power to alienate any
part of the property in favor of the defaulting and disinherited one,
and in case of attempting to do so, should forfeit the whole, which
should then go to found a Lunatic Asylum.
“Such was the purport of our uncle’s will. My father told me he hoped I
would not be such an idiot as to forfeit such a splendid fortune by
refusing to marry Vivienne Leville.
“I told him, with truth, that, on the contrary, so far was I from any
thoughts of refusing to marry my cousin, and so dear was she to my soul,
that if my uncle and my father had both threatened to disinherit me
_for_ marrying her, I should have tried to win her all the same.
“My father wanted the betrothal to take place then; so did I, you may
depend. This was accomplished without any love-making on my part. We
three—my father, my cousin and myself—being together in the
drawing-room, after dinner, my father broached the subject to Vivi, by
speaking of our uncle’s death and reading the will.
“‘If you accept the conditions of the will and marry John, my girl, you
will be the future Baroness Beaudevere, with an income from your united
fortunes of fifty thousand pounds a year. Come, what do you say?’
“‘Jack has not asked me yet,’ laughed my cousin.
“‘Has not he? Well, he told me just now that he had meant to marry you,
if he could get you, even if the consequences had been his
disinheritance instead of his enrichment!’
“‘Did you say that, Jack?’ she asked.
“‘Yes, and I meant it, Vivi,’ I stammered, for I was an awkward boy,
then at the most awkward age of boyhood.
“‘Very well, then. It is settled,’ said my father; and he took our hands
and joined them.
“‘Is it settled, Vivi?’ I asked.
“‘Yes,’ she laughed.
“‘And you _will_ be my wife, truly?’ I asked breathlessly.
“‘Of course,’ she answered.’ Do you suppose I am going to forfeit fifty
thousand pounds per annum for _you_? Go along, boy!’
“Though I was not quite satisfied with the way in which she answered me
and could have wished she had been more earnest, I went away to Oxford
next morning as happy as a king! I was _sure_ of her now, or at least I
_thought_ so! I sent her a betrothal ring from London set with a
solitaire diamond worth a farm.
“No day was yet fixed for our marriage. We were yet but young. It was
understood, however, that we were betrothed to each other, and neither
of us in the matrimonial market. The baron, my father, was so well
satisfied with our engagement that he took very good care to let it be
known generally.
“At the end of every college term I came home here to visit my cousin,
my betrothed. And every time found her more lovely and attractive. She
did not keep on growing taller. She had stopped growing, for which
circumstance I was very thankful; for _I_ had not stopped growing. I was
quickly overtaking her in height. When we were both eighteen I was as
tall as she was. When we were twenty-one I was half a head taller.
“Then I graduated from old Trinity with some honor, and we all came up
to London to our town house for the season.
“My father, from excessive caution, had not brought my young cousin up
for a season in town before this, lest there should be some possible
chance of some other aspirant for her hand that might make trouble; but
now that I had left the university never to return, and our marriage day
was fixed and near at hand, we all came up to town for the season and
occupied our house in South Audley street. We got the dowager Lady
Leville, a distant relation of my mother’s, to come and stay with us to
chaperone Vivi.
“Vivi was first of all presented at court and then entered
society—_threw_ herself into it rather—wildly, madly, as only a country
girl secluded from the world until she was twenty-one and then brought
out in London at the height of the fashionable season, under such
auspices as hers, could do.
“I went with her everywhere, followed her, watched her, closely,
jealously. Among the many admirers her beauty and reputed wealth drew
around her was one whom I cannot even now recall without a pang—Thadeus
Valdimir Desparde, a captain in the horse guards. He was called by women
the handsomest and most fascinating man in London. He was called by the
men the best, freest, most generous fellow alive.
“I cannot dwell upon this part of the story, my friends—I suffered the
tortures of souls in purgatory when I saw how interested in this man my
cousin had become. No, I cannot go into details. Even my father saw the
danger at last, and he expostulated with his niece, and—only offended
her!
“Our marriage day drew near. Our wedding was to have taken place in
London. But my father, seeing the danger, suddenly resolved to leave
town and have our marriage celebrated at Cloudland. Vivienne made no
opposition to the plan, and my hopes of happiness were revived,—only for
a few hours, however, for the day before we were to have left London
Vivienne Leville disappeared.”
Here the baron paused in his story and put his hand to his head—a
gesture common to him when disturbed.
Miss Desparde, whose eyes had been fixed on him with the deepest
sympathy throughout his narration, now left her seat and drew a hassock
to his side, sat down by him and took his hand and kissed it.
The baron drew his hand away from her and laid it on her head with a
gesture of benediction. Then he resumed his story with more
cheerfulness:
“When we next heard of my cousin she was the wife of Captain Desparde.
She wrote a letter to my father and myself, pleading forgiveness, saying
that she loved me as a dear brother, but _could_ not think of me in any
other light; that she loved Captain Desparde with all the strength of
her being, and was willing to forfeit for his sake the coronet of
Beaudevere and the wealth of the Indies, and to go with him to Jamaica,
where the regiment into which he had exchanged was ordered.
“That was the last we heard of Vivienne for seven years. I had a brain
fever, but got over it without any lasting injury to my constitution. A
year passed away, and my father urged upon me my duty, as an only son
and the sole heir to the old barony, to marry. But I could not bring my
mind to it. Four more years passed away, and then my father left me. He
had been a childless widower and long passed middle age when he married
my mother, and so he was quite aged when he passed away, and I, at the
age of twenty-six, became the last Baron of Beaudevere.
“I traveled on the Continent for two years, and then returned to
Cloudland, a disappointed, solitary, but, thank Heaven! not a soured or
embittered man.
“Then I one day received a letter that gave me an electric shock!—a
letter from my cousin Vivienne, asking me to come to her for the Lord’s
sake, for that she was widowed and dying in destitution and dishonor—”
“DISHONOR!” exclaimed Valdimir and Vivienne, in one voice of agony.
“Stay! She thought so. It was _her_ mistake then, as it was _yours_
afterwards, my lad. And from the same cause. You were in error. No
dishonor ever attached to your name, my young cousins. And now let me go
on.
“I read the letter in my eagerness, on recognizing her handwriting,
before I even looked at the date. When I did, I saw that it was written
from Kingston on the Island of Jamaica. You will despise me, my young
people, but I arose up from reading that letter, ‘all on fire with joy,’
determined to go at once—to start that very day for London and sail in
the first ship or craft, whatever it might be, that should leave the
West India Docks. And I knew that one or more left every day; for I had
resolved to marry my cousin yet if she would have me—to marry her
widowed and destitute and dying as she was, and dishonored as she might
be, if such a thing could be possible.
“I went down to London without a servant; I found a sailing ship outward
bound with the tide and engaged my passage on her. In due time I reached
the Island of Jamaica and the town of Kingston. I found my kinswoman,
with two children, in poor lodgings, and in a dying condition—much
further gone than I had expected to find her; to have spoken of marriage
to her would have been the bitterest mockery.
“I found her suffering not only from bodily but from mental distress.
She gave me a history of her short married life. It had been a happy
marriage, because it had been a love match, although her husband had
been wild very wild, and had got into debt, and finally been obliged to
sell out his commission under penalty of being dismissed from her
majesty’s service—only for debt, for nothing worse at that time, she
said.
“But then she hesitated, wept, wrung her hands, and—could not tell me,
but showed me a paper. My dears, you know the fallacy of newspaper
reports? A garbled account of that execution in New Orleans had been
published in the _West Indian Signal_, by which it was made to appear
that Captain Valdimir Desparde was the felon who had suffered the
extreme penalty of the law on that occasion.
“I was shocked beyond all measure, but I was also very incredulous. I
knew there must have been some mistake. But my first care was to remove
my dying cousin and her two children to more comfortable apartments, and
to provide her with all that her condition required, the best medical
attendance among the rest.
“Then—as I could not talk with _her_ upon a subject so extremely
distressing and exciting—I set about, through other channels, to find
out the truth in regard to Captain Desparde. And I soon learned it, as
_she_ might have learned if she had known how to inquire.
“I discovered that Captain Desparde had left Kingston to go on some
business to New Orleans, had remained there but a short time and
embarked on a steamboat to return to his wife and children, whom, it
appears, he had fondly loved through all his wild career, when the
steamer was wrecked and many of the crew and passengers were lost.
“His name, by some mistake, never appeared in the list of the lost, nor
was it known to his wife that he had embarked on that ill-fated ship.
But I ascertained the fact beyond all doubt.
“It was much easier to assure myself of the identity of the felon who
was executed in New Orleans under the _alias_ of Valdimir Desparde.
“When I found myself in possession of the whole unquestionable truth I
made it known to my cousin, and soothed her last hours with the good
news that her husband had died a blameless man, and notwithstanding all
his wildness, had left an unstained name to their children.
“And I promised to adopt those children, and bring them up as my own. A
week after that my cousin fell asleep in my arms to wake no more in this
lower world. We left her mortal remains in St. John’s Cemetery at
Kingston, and I brought her children home with me.
“My lad and lasses, my story is told, and now you know why I have lived
a bachelor all my past life, and why I must expect to be solitary all my
future,” concluded the baron, with a sigh and a smile.
Vivienne, who was still sitting on a low hassock at his feet, holding
his hand, and gazing up into his face with her dark eyes full of
tenderest sympathy and deepest reverence, now spoke in low, impassioned
tones:
“Not solitary while I live, dearest Beaue. She treated you badly, Beaue;
but she could not help it, you know, if she loved somebody else. She
would have treated you worse if she had been false to herself and
married you under such circumstances. And, dearest Beaue, she left you
_me_—my mother left you _me_—and I will never leave you—never, never
leave you!”
The baron laid his hand upon her beautiful young head and smiled as he
might have smiled on a child, as he said:
“But some one may be taking you away from me, dear. I could not be so
selfish as to wish to prevent that.”
“I know what you mean, Beaue,” said Vivienne. “You mean that I may be
asked in marriage. Well, I have often been asked. I could not help it,
with all my coldness and discouragement of such offers; but I shall
never, never, never leave you, Beaue, and, of course, never
marry—unless—” Her voice failed.
“Unless what, my dear?” inquired the baron, kindly stroking her head.
She did not answer, nor did he understand her.
Would he _ever_ understand her?
Hardly; for Beaue was rather self-depreciating in all respects; and
besides that, he was one of those who could not be made to believe a
truth—sometimes made manifest—that a young woman could love an old man.
He turned to Valdimir and said:
“You will now perhaps understand the morbid sensitiveness that kept me
silent on the subject of your early life, Desparde.”
The young man bowed gravely. He was thinking how much Lord Beaudevere
must have vailed under the convenient term of “wildness” that was at
least reprehensible in the career of the late Captain Desparde. The
selling of his commission to pay his debts; the subsequent bringing of
his family to destitution—and leaving them so in a foreign city, while
he himself went off somewhere else—all these circumstances in themselves
hinted at a story, that might yet be told, not pleasant for the son to
hear.
But he had heard enough.
And now the clock struck twelve, and the Christmas bells rang out in
joyous peals of welcome as to a newborn babe.
The circle around the fire arose and smilingly exchanged their mutual
good wishes, and retired to rest.
Lady Arielle Montjoie, as we have continued to call her, because of her
extreme youth and our own habit, although since the death of the late
earl she had been Countess of Altofaire—remained at Cloudland until
after Twelfth day, and then returned to Castle Montjoie, accompanied by
Vivienne.
Early in the new year came news of Brandon Coyle. The officers that had
been sent out in pursuit of him returned without him and with
intelligence that under any other circumstances must have been received
with grief, but under the existing ones was hailed by his relatives with
a sense of infinite relief.
Brandon Coyle had never reached the shores of the New World.
One stormy winter day, when the ship was in extreme peril off the coast
of Newfoundland, and he persisted in staying on deck against the advice
of the officers, he was blown overboard and drowned. Rescue had been
impossible. Even his body was irrecoverably lost.
The captain of the ship took charge of his effects and held them subject
to the order of his heirs.
The detective officers on their arrival at New York learned these facts,
took possession of the property of the deceased, and returned with it to
England. After making their report to the Chief of Police, they came
down to Caveland and delivered up their trust to old Mr. Coyle.
Four thousand nine hundred pounds of the five thousand drawn upon the
forged check were recovered and returned to the bank.
And old Mr. Coyle and his niece breathed freely. This ending was so much
better than that which they had had every reason to fear for Brandon
Coyle.
The old squire, “with the sigh of a great deliverance,” took his niece
to Italy for the winter.
While they were sojourning in Rome they made the acquaintance of a young
Roman gentleman of incredible nobility and poverty, who, attracted by
the beauty and wealth of the heiress, laid his title and his destitution
at her feet.
Aspirita, in desperation, accepted them and became the Marchesa Maniola.
Old Mr. Coyle returned to his native land with a double sense of
satisfaction and security. Brandon could never now be hung for murder;
Aspirita would never now run away with a footman.
He settled down to his own quiet, kindly, comfortable life at Caveland,
beloved and honored by his servants and tenantry, and esteemed and
respected by his neighbors.
And so we leave the old squire.
MARRIAGE IN MAY WEATHER.
In the prime of the spring a happy party was gathered at Castle Montjoie
to witness the marriage of John Beaue, Baron Beaudevere, of Cloudland,
to Vivienne, only daughter of the late Captain Desparde, of her
majesty’s army; and also that of Mr. Valdimir Desparde with Arielle
Montjoie, Countess of Altofaire.
Yes, Beaue was happy at last—as happy as it was in the nature of man to
be—in the assurance of his young bride’s pure and devoted love, which
had grown for him from her childhood up, and had been founded on an
admiration for his character which almost amounted to adoration.
By Arielle’s instance, the marriage of the baron and his chosen bride
took precedence, but was immediately followed by that of Mr. Desparde
and the young countess.
The ceremonies were performed in the chapel by the Rev. Mr. Lucas,
assisted by the Rev. Mr. Matthew, and were conducted in a very
unostentatious manner.
The brides were dressed alike in white silk, with white Brussels lace
vails, orange flower wreaths, and pearl ornaments. There were no
bride-maids nor groomsmen.
In the first marriage Valdimir Desparde gave his sister away. In the
second marriage the baron performed the same office for the young
countess.
The witnesses were very few—old Mr. Coyle, Dr. Bennet, Mr. and Mrs.
Adrian Fleming, and the family solicitor, who had come down for the
marriage settlements, and the upper servants, who were gathered in the
rear.
The old housekeeper and butler were aghast at this simplicity, and
declared that it was enough to make all the old earls and countesses
rise up out of their coffins and come in procession to remonstrate
against their last descendant being married in this plain manner.
And they told each other traditions that had been handed down to them
about the grand weddings of former times at Castle Montjoie.
After the last ceremony the company adjourned to the dining-room, where
the wedding breakfast was laid.
Old Squire Coyle was invited to take the head of the table. All honor
was done this old gentleman by the neighbors that loved him.
The breakfast went on merrily.
Mr. Adrian Fleming arose in his place and made a little speech in
proposing the health of the two brides.
Beaudevere arose and responded on the part of the ladies.
Then other healths were drank, and the merry meal came to an end.
The brides withdrew to change their wedding-dresses for traveling suits
of lavender poplin, with sacks, hats and gloves to match, and half an
hour later drove off in an open carriage with their husbands, followed
by a shower of good wishes and old slippers.
They drove together to the Miston Station and took the London train _en
route_ for Paris.
They passed the conventional four weeks very pleasantly in the French
capital, and then returned to their country homes in Cumberland.
Mr. Desparde and the young countess took up their abode at Castle
Montjoie, and Lord and Lady Beaudevere settled down at Cloudland.
They visited each other often.
* * * * *
Only a few years have passed since then, but children have been born to
both households, and girls and boys are growing up in the old homes.
Valdimir Desparde is no longer the heir presumptive of the Barony of
Beaudevere, for an heir-apparent has seen the light; but Valdimir is
compensated in another way. By the terms of the marriage settlements, it
will be remembered, he had agreed to assume the name and arms of
Montjoie. For that reason and others, within three years after his
marriage with the last heiress of the house, he was granted the
reversion of the old title and became the Earl of Altofaire.
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE CHAUTAUQUANS.
BY
JOHN HABBERTON,
_Author of “Helen’s Babies,” etc._
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WARREN B. DAVIS._
All interested in the famous Chautauquan reading-circles will welcome
this novel. All who have been to Chautauqua will recognize the perfect
truth of the descriptions. The novel is an encyclopedia of information
about getting up a Chautauqua circle. It tells in an amusing way the
effect of starting a movement in a country village, and the enthusiasm
which it arouses among young and old when once the organization gets
into working order. Mr. Habberton is a veteran story-teller, and his new
story is full of interest. There are in it many humorous and pathetic
situations. The rich variety of characters in a typical American village
affords the author a great opportunity for introducing interesting
portraits and sketches. Altogether the book is one of the most notable
literary achievements which the Chautauqua movement has brought forth.
For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, on
receipt of price, by the publishers.
MRS. HAROLD STAGG.
A NOVEL.
BY
ROBERT GRANT,
Author of “Jack Hall,” etc.
This is a brilliant novel, in which the author has given a free rein to
his undoubted faculty for social satire. Mrs. Harold Stagg is a capital
portraiture whose prototype may be found in the drawing-rooms of New
York, Boston and Newport. The story is told with the amusing and quiet
cleverness which has made the author’s reputation, and contains many
striking ideas which will cause Society’s backbone to creep. Like “The
Anglomaniacs,” it places its heroine under a cross-fire from a wealthy
swell and a talented youth to fame and fortune unknown—a situation which
allows Mr. Grant an opportunity to exhibit a very interesting and
unselfish type of the young American woman. In despite of the satire of
which Mrs. Harold Stagg is the object, every man will like that lady for
herself, even though he may not be as blindly devoted as her husband.
THE FORSAKEN INN.
By ANNA KATHARINE GREEN.
_ILLUSTRATED BY VICTOR PERARD._
Anna Katharine Green’s novel, “The Forsaken Inn,” is admitted to be her
best work. The authoress of “The Leavenworth Case” has always been
considered extraordinarily clever in the construction of mystifying and
exciting plots, but in this book she has not only eclipsed even herself
in her specialty, but has combined with her story-telling gift a
fascinating mixture of poetical qualities which makes “The Forsaken Inn”
a work of such interest that it will not be laid down by an imaginative
reader until he has reached the last line of the last chapter. The scene
of the story is the Hudson, between Albany and Poughkeepsie, and the
time is the close of the eighteenth century. In writing her previous
books, the authoress carefully planned her work before putting pen to
paper, but this story was written in a white heat, and under the spur of
a moment of inspiration.
“The Forsaken Inn” would have a large circulation even if the author was
less well known and popular than Anna Katharine Green. With the author’s
reputation and its own inherent excellence, we confidently predict that
it will prove the novel of the season.
The illustrations of “The Forsaken Inn” are by Victor Perard. They are
twenty-one in number, and are a beautiful embellishment of the book.
A NEW NOVEL
By the Author of “The Forsaken Inn.”
A MATTER OF MILLIONS.
BY
ANNA KATHARINE GREEN.
This brilliant, artistic novel will enhance the great reputation of the
popular author of “The Forsaken Inn.” It is a story of to-day. The scene
is laid in the city of New York and the village of Great Barrington,
Mass. The story recites the strange adventures of a beautiful heiress
who is herself so mysterious a creature that the reader cannot fathom
her character until the final explanation and denouement of the plot.
She is an intellectual and talented girl, whose musical gifts make her
admired and beloved by her own sex, and the object of passionate
adoration by the other sex. The artistic life is pictured and
exemplified by two of the principal characters in the story. Everything
conspires to make the story one of strong dramatic interest.
For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, on
receipt of price, by the publishers.
A New Novel by the Author of “Seth’s Brother’s Wife.”
THE
RETURN OF THE O’MAHONY.
BY
HAROLD FREDERIC,
_Author of “Seth’s Brother’s Wife,” “The Lawton Girl,” etc._
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WARREN B. DAVIS._
12mo. 334 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.50.
Harold Frederic has won a place among the best writers of fiction by his
charming novel, “Seth’s Brother’s Wife.” His new novel, “The Return of
The O’Mahony,” will increase his reputation as a bright and amusing
story-teller. This story opens with a scene in camp, near the close of
the Rebellion, full of life and spirit and picturesqueness. The hero is
a Yankee dare-devil, a private soldier, famed for his courage and
eccentricity throughout the Union Army. His last adventure, in the
company of an Irish recruit, leads to his going to Ireland and joining
the Fenian Brotherhood. The record of his doings and of the connections
and associations which he makes there is full of astonishing incidents
and disclosures, extremely interesting and often delightfully humorous.
The book is one which will gratify the jaded palate of the satiated
novel-reader by its sprightliness and originality.
For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, on
receipt of price, by the publishers.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.