It was a warm bright day of early November, so serene and sunny even in
London that it seemed as if the promise of spring rather than any threat
of winter was in the air. Leaves still lingered thickly on the
plane-trees in the Park, and a sun divinely clear flooded the streets
and roadways with unusual light. Shop-boys whistled as they went on
their errands, the hoops of children were bowled with alacrity, while
their nursemaids smiled on the benignant police who piloted them and
their charges over perilous crossings. London, moreover, was rather
full; that is to say, a few hundreds who would not otherwise have been
there had joined the patient millions who were never anywhere else, for
Parliament had met, and a three-lined whip had been flogging the
laggards back to their places from partridge-drive and pheasant-shoot.
For this reason, the columns of "Diana" had been particularly
sprightly, and all the world might read with rapture that Lady Ardingly
had returned with her husband to Pall Mall; that Lord Alston with his
wife, "who looked quite charming in a guipure hat trimmed with
sassafras"--or the effect of such words--were in Park Lane; that Lord
Brereton with his wife, "whom I saw driving two spirited colts in the
Park yesterday," had returned to Grosvenor Square. "Cupid's Bow," also,
had reported the marriage of the daughter to Mr. Anthony Maxwell only
three days before, and "Diana" had been graciously pleased to express
satisfaction at the presents, knew, of course, how delighted everybody
was, and what the bride's travelling dress was like; in fact, there was
no doubt whatever about it.
The spirited colt business was also authentic, and the morning after
this announcement had appeared it so happened that Mildred was driving
them again. The carriage was of a light-phaeton type, with a seat for
the groom behind, and the two cobs--"Diana" had miscalled them--took it
like a feather. On the whole, Mildred had had a pleasanter autumn that
she had thought possible. She had stayed at several entertaining
houses, had picked up several new friends and dropped several old ones.
Her method of dropping old friends was always admirable. She never
hurled them violently away; she merely opened her fingers and let them
fall gently to the ground, never quarrelling with them, but just
becoming unconscious of their existence. Then she had been at Aix for a
fortnight, and had explained matters quite satisfactorily to a person
who mattered very much, and altogether had rather a success. Afterwards
followed Maud's marriage, which left her freer than before (and she had
already persuaded herself that the last two seasons had been bondage);
and she had invented and learned by heart a little story of how that
very odd woman, Marie Alston, had tried to stop it. In its finished form
it was quite a pathetic narrative. "But every one must choose for
himself what he means to do," it ended, "and if Marie chooses to be
malicious, it is her look-out. Dear Marie! I used to be very fond of
her. Yes, she has gone off terribly--quite _passée_, and so young, too.
She cannot be more than thirty." This latter was quite true; she was
only twenty-six, and Mildred knew it.
Yes, on the whole Mildred congratulated herself. Her appetite for
pleasure had not been diminished by the events of this summer, and there
was still plenty to feed it. In her superficial way she missed Jack a
good deal, but she had got over it in her hard, practical manner, and
all that remained to her now of regret had been transformed into
implacable anger against him for his desertion. However, she had some
charming new friends, and certainly one crowd was very like another
crowd. To have your house full, that was the great thing, and to get
plenty of invitations to houses that would also be full. She liked
eating, and screaming, and laughing, and intriguing; they were still at
her command. Externally, to conclude, she was a shade more pronounced;
her hair was slightly more Titianesque, her cheeks a little more highly
coloured, her mouth a little redder, her eyebrows a little thicker. Most
people thought she looked very well, but Lady Ardingly said to herself,
"Poor Mildred is beginning to fight for it."
The day was rather windy, and as she drove up Park Lane she had her work
cut out for her in the matter of management. The cobs had been newly
clipped, and all their nerves appeared to be outside their skins. This
Mildred thoroughly enjoyed; she was conscious of the mastery over brute
strength which makes the fascination of dealing with horses, and she
loved to know that Box longed to bolt and could not manage it, and that
Cox wanted to shy at every carriage that passed but did not dare, for
that his nerves were outside his skin, and he was aware who sat behind
him with whip alert. "The heavenly devils!" thought Mildred to herself
as they avoided a curbstone on the one hand by a hair-breadth and a
bicycle on the other by half that distance.
Like all fine whips, she infinitely preferred to drive in the streets
than in the Park, but to-day they were horribly crowded, and she turned
in through Stanhope Gate with the idea of letting the cobs have a good
trot through the Park and come out at the Albert Gate. The day was so
divine that she thought she would perhaps go out of town, and lunch at
Richmond or somewhere, returning in the afternoon. She was dining out
that night at Blanche Devereux's, who had a Mexican band coming, which,
according to her account, was so thrilling that you didn't know whether
you were standing on your head or your heels. This sounded quite
promising; she liked a _décolleté_ evening.
So Box and Cox had their hearts' desire, and flew down the road inside
the Park parallel to Park Lane. Here a motor-car, performing in a gusty
and throbbing manner, was a shock to their sense of decency, and they
made a simultaneous dash for the railings, until recalled to their own
sense of decency by a vivid cut across their close-shaven backs and a
steady pull on their mouths to show them that the whip was punitive, not
suggestive of faster progress. The progress, indeed, was fast enough to
satisfy even Mildred, who, however, was enjoying herself immensely. Both
cobs had their heads free (she, like the wise woman she was in matters
of horseflesh, abominating bearing-reins even for the brougham horses,
and knowing that for speed they are death and ruin), necks arched, and
were stepping high and long. Then, as they came to the bend of the road
of the Ladies' Mile, she indicated the right-hand road, and found that
they were a little beyond her control. Simultaneously a wayward gust
picked up a piece of wandering newspaper and blew it right across Box's
blinkers; from there it slid gradually on to Cox's. The same moment
both heads were up, and, utterly beyond her control, they bolted
straight for the gate at Hyde Park Corner. It is narrow; outside the
double tide of traffic roared and jostled.
By good luck or bad luck--it did not seem at the moment to matter in the
least--they were straight for the opening. If they had not been they
would have upset over the posts or against the arch, but as they were
they would charge at racing speed into an omnibus. A policeman outside,
Mildred could see, had observed what had happened, and with frantic
gesticulations was attempting to stem the double tide of carriages and
open a lane for her, and it was with a curious indifference that she
knew he would be too late. Passers-by also had looked up and seen, and
just as they charged through the arch she saw one rush out full into the
roadway in the splendid and desperate attempt, no doubt, to avert the
inevitable accident. "What a fool!" she thought. "I am done; why should
he be done, too?" Then for the millionth part of a second their eyes
met, and they recognised each other.
* * * * *
Then, though she had been cool enough before, she utterly lost her head.
She knew that she screamed, "Jack, for God's sake get out of the way!"
and simultaneously he had met the horses as a man meets an incoming
breaker, struggling to reach some wreck on a rocky shore. With one hand
he caught something, rein or blinker, God knows which, with the other
the end of the pole. Thus, dragging and scraping and impotently
resisting, he was borne off his feet, and they whirled into the
mid-stream of traffic.
There was a crash, a cry, the man was jerked off like a fly; one cob
went down, and Mildred was thrown out on to the roadway. She still held
the reins; she saw a horse pulled up on its haunches just above her,
within a yard of her head, and the next moment she had picked herself up
unhurt.
On the other side of her wrecked phaeton, jammed against her fallen cob,
was an omnibus. Under the centre of it lay the man who had saved her.
Suddenly, to her ears, the loud street hushed into absolute silence. A
crowd, springing up like ants on a disturbed hill, swarmed round her,
but she knew nothing of them. The omnibus made a half-turn, and slowly
drew clear of her own carriage and of that which lay beneath its wheels.
And though she had recognised him before in that infinitesimal moment
as she galloped through the arch, she might have looked for hours
without recognising him now. Hoof and wheel had gone over his head,
stamping it out of all semblance of humanity.
EPILOGUE
Lady Ardingly was sitting on the veranda of the New Hotel at Cairo, on a
clear bright February afternoon of the year following. The coloured life
of the East went jingling by, and she observed it with a critical
indifference.
"We could all have blue gaberdines if we chose," she thought to herself;
"but they are not becoming. Also it would be quite easy to put sepia on
one's face instead of rouge."
And having thus dismissed the gorgeous East, she turned to the Egyptian
Gazette. There were telegrams to be found in it, anyhow, which came from
more civilized parts. She had not played Bridge for twenty-four hours,
and felt slightly depressed. But whenever a carriage stopped at the
hotel she looked up; it appeared that she expected some one.
At length the expected happened, and she rose from her seat and went to
the top of the half-dozen steps that formed the entrance from the
street.
"Ah, my dear," she said, "my dear Marie, I have sat here all afternoon!
I did not know when you might come. You are not dusty? You do not want
to wash? Let us have immediately the apology for tea which they give one
here."
Marie put up her veil and kissed the face that was presented to her. It
was fearful and marvellous, but she was extraordinarily glad to see it.
"It was charming of you to wait for me," she said. "The train was very
late. I think my maid has lost it. There was a sort of Babel at
Alexandria, and the last I saw of her was that she was apparently
engaged in a personal struggle with a man with 'Cook' on his cap."
"Then, it will be all right if you give her time," said Lady Ardingly.
"But meantime you have no luggage, no clothes? It does not matter. I
will lend you all you want. Ah, my dear, you may smile, but I have all
kinds of things."
The apology for tea was brought, and both accepted it, talking of
trivialities. Then Lady Ardingly sat in a lower chair.
"And now talk to me, my dear," she said. "Tell me what news there is. I
have not seen you since July!"
Marie paused a moment.
"I hardly know what to tell you," she said, "for I suppose you do not
ask me for just the trivial news that I have, as last-comer from
England."
"No, my dear; who cares? Anybody can tell me that. About yourself."
"Well, I saw Mildred," said Marie. "I saw her the same day as it
happened. We went together to Jack's room. And we shook hands. I have
not seen her since."
"Ah, she did her best to ruin him in life, and she succeeded in killing
him," said Lady Ardingly very dryly. "I do not want news of her. She is
a cook."
Marie bit her lip.
"I also do not want to talk of her," she said. "She is very gay this
winter, I believe. She says it would look so odd if she didn't do
things, just because of that awful accident. She thinks people would
talk."
"She has a horror of that, I know," said Lady Ardingly, "except when
they are not talking about her. If they are not talking about her, she
joins in it. Did she, in confidence, tell you----"
"Yes, she told me in confidence that it was she who had started that
silly story about me. She told me also that you knew it. So I am not
violating her confidence."
Lady Ardingly made a noise in her throat which resembled gargling.
"That is enough," she said. "What else, dear Marie?"
Marie smiled.
"You mean Jim, I suppose?" she said.
"Yes, Jim."
"Well, Jim is coming out here in a week or so. He cannot get away any
sooner. I have seen him a good deal."
"And you will in the future see him even oftener," suggested Lady
Ardingly.
"Much oftener. I shall see him every day."
"I am very glad of that," she said; "I have a great respect for Mr.
Spencer. I see constantly that he is attacking my poor Ardingly. And I
respect you also, my dear. You are the nicest good woman I know. Ah! my
dear, when you are old like me, you will have pleasant back-pages to
turn over."
"And to whom shall I owe them?" asked Marie.
"To your own good sense. My dear, I am not often sentimental. But I feel
sentimental when I think of one morning in last July. You were a good
woman always, Marie, I should imagine. That day you were a grand one,
too--superb! I admired you, and it is seldom that I admire people."
There was a long silence. With the swiftness of sunset in the South, the
colours were struck from the gay crowds, and where ten minutes before
had been a riot of blues and reds, there was only a succession of
various gray. But overhead the stars burned close and large, and the
pale northern heavens were here supplanted by a velvet blue.
"And I admired Jack," said Lady Ardingly at length. "He was weak, if you
like, and, if you choose, he was wicked. But there was, how shall I say
it? the possibility of the big scale about him. That is the best thing;
the next is to know that you are small. The worst is not to know that
you are small."
Again Marie made no reply. Outside the patter of bare feet went right
and left, donkeys jingled their chains, and the odour of the Southern
night got more intense.
"Ah! my dear, we are lepers," said Lady Ardingly. "We are all wrong and
bad, and we roll over each other in the gutter like these Arabs
scrambling for backshish. We strive for one thing, which is wealth, and
when we have got it we spend it on pleasure. You are not so, and the odd
thing is that the pleasure we get does not please us. It is always
something else we want. I sit and I say 'What news?' and when I am told
I say 'What else?' and still 'What else?' and I am not satisfied.
Younger folk than I do this, and they do that, and still, like me, they
cry, 'What else? what else?' It means that we go after remedies for our
_ennui_, for our leprosy, and there is no such remedy unless we become
altogether different. Now, you are not so. Tell me your secret. Why are
you different? Why can you sit still while we fidget? Why is it you can
always keep clean in the middle of that muck-heap?"
Marie was moved and strangely touched. Her companion's face looked very
haggard in the glare of the electric lamp overhead, and her eyes were
weary and wistful.
"Dear Lady Ardingly," she said, "why do you say these things? I suppose
my nature is not to fidget. I suppose, also, that the pleasures you
refer to do not seem to me immensely attractive. I suppose I happen to
be simple and not complex."
"Ah! that is not all," said the other. "Those are only little
accidents."
Marie let her eyes wander a moment, then looked straight at Lady
Ardingly.
"I believe in God," she said.
THE END
* * * * *
RECENT FICTION.
* * * * *
The Strength of the Weak.
By CHAUNCEY C. HOTCHKISS, author of "Betsy Ross," "In Defiance of the
King," etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
The delightful outdoor quality of Mr. Hotchkiss's novel forms a
charming accompaniment to the adventurous happenings of the
romance. The diary of a soldier of the New Hampshire Grants and the
situation of an English youth holding a seigniory in Canada at the
beginning of the French and Indian wars provide a variety of
dramatic incident.
A Fool's Year.
By E. H. COOPER. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
This story of English social and racing life introduces among other
striking figures an American millionaire whose remarkable exploits
on the turf involve some peculiar complications. The story is one
of incident and odd complications, and its interest is unfailing.
The Curious Courtship of Kate Poins.
By LOUIS EVAN SHIPMAN. Illustrated, 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"One of the best-written novels of the year. It will be widely read
and generally admired. The romance has vigor, tone, and cumulative
interest that increases as the story ascends to its
climax."--_Philadelphia Item._
The Luck of the Vails.
By E. F. BENSON, author of "Dodo," "The Rubicon," "Mammon & Co." 12mo.
Cloth, $1.50.
"A romance of more than usual charm and grace, and, from the
literary point of view, of undeniable distinction."--_Boston
Advertiser._
From the Unsounded Sea.
By NELLIE K. BLISSETT, author of "The Wisdom of the Simple," etc. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
"Once engaged in its pages, the reader will not be likely to leave
the book until it is finished.... A skilfully-wrought-out romance
of mystery."--_Brooklyn Eagle._
Some Women I have Known.
By MAARTEN MAARTENS, author of "God's Fool," etc. With Frontispiece.
12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"Maarten Maartens stands head and shoulders above the average
novelist of the day in intellectual subtlety and imaginative
power."--_Boston Beacon._
The Wage of Character.
By JULIEN GORDON, author of "Mrs. Clyde," etc. With Portrait. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.25.
Julien Gordon's new novel is a story of the world of fashion and
intrigue, written with an insight, an epigrammatic force, and a
realization of the dramatic and the pathetic as well as more
superficial phases of life, that stamp the book as one immediate
and personal in its interest and convincing in its appeal to the
minds and to the sympathies of readers.
The Quiberon Touch.
A Romance of the Sea. By CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY, author of "For the
Freedom of the Sea," "The Grip of Honor," etc. With Frontispiece. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.50.
"This story has a real beauty; it breathes of the sea. Fenimore
Cooper would not be ashamed to own a disciple in the school of
which he was master in these descriptions of the tug of war as it
was in the eighteenth century between battle-ships under
sail."--_New York Mail and Express._
Shipmates.
A Volume of Salt-Water Fiction. By MORGAN ROBERTSON, author of "Masters
of Men," etc. With Frontispiece. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
When Mr. Robertson writes of the sea, the tang of the brine and the
snap of the sea-breeze are felt behind his words. The adventures
and mysteries of sea life, the humors and strange complications
possible in yachting, the inner tragedies of the foks'l, the
delightful adventures of Finnegan in war, and the original
developments in the course of true love at sea, are among the vivid
pictures that make up a volume so vital in its interests and
dramatic in its situations, so delightful in its quaint humor and
so vigorous and stirring throughout, that it will be read by sea
lovers for its full flavor of the sea, and by others as a
refreshing tonic.
The Man Who Knew Better.
By T. GALLON, author of "Tatterley," etc. Illustrated by Gordon Browne.
8vo. Cloth, $1.50.
"The best Christmas story that has appeared since the death of
Charles Dickens.... It is an admirably written story, and merits
warm welcome and broad recognition."--_Baltimore Sun._
Under the Skylights.
By HENRY B. FULLER, author of "The Chevalier of Pensieri-Vani," "The
Cliff Dwellers," etc. 12mo. Deckle edge, gilt top, $1.50.
The charming humor, delightful flavor, and refined quality of Mr.
Fuller's work impart a peculiar zest to this subtly satirical
picture of the extraordinary vicissitudes of arts and letters in a
Western metropolis.
The Apostles of the Southeast.
By FRANK T. BULLEN, author of "The Cruise of the Cachalot," "Idyls of
the Sea," etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"Mr. Bullen writes with a sympathy and pathetic touch rare indeed.
His characters are living ones, his scenes full of life and
realism, and there is not a page in the whole book which is not
brimful of deepest interest."--_Philadelphia Item._
The Alien.
By F. F. MONTRÉSOR, author of "Into the Highways and Hedges," etc. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.50.
"May be confidently commended to the most exacting reader as an
absorbing story, excellently told."--_Kansas City Star._
While Charlie Was Away.
By Mrs. POULTNEY BIGELOW. 16mo. Cloth, 75 cents.
Mrs. Bigelow tells a wonderfully vivid story of a woman in London
"smart" life whose hunger for love involves her in perils, but
finds a true way out in the end.
A Nest of Linnets.
By F. FRANKFORT MOORE, author of "The Jessamy Bride," "A Gray Eye or
So," etc. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"That 'A Nest of Linnets' is bright, clever, and well written
follows as a matter of course, considering that it was written by
F. Frankfort Moore."--_Philadelphia Telegraph._
The Eternal City.
By HALL CAINE, author of "The Christian," "The Manxman," "The Bondman,"
"The Deemster," etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"A powerful novel, inspired by a lofty conception, and carried out
with unusual force. It is the greatest thing that Hall Caine has
ever attempted."--_Brooklyn Eagle._
The Teller.
By EDWARD NOYES WESTCOTT, author of "David Harum." Illustrated, 12mo.
Cloth, $1.00.
The publishers of "David Harum" have the pleasure of presenting the
only other story written by the lamented Edward Noyes Westcott. Mr.
Westcott's business life lay with practical financial matters, and
in "The Teller" he has drawn upon his knowledge of life in a bank.
When Love Flies Out o' the Window.
By LEONARD MERRICK. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
"The attention of the reader is held from start to finish, because
the whole plot is original, and one can not tell what is going to
happen next."--_Washington Times._
The Beleaguered Forest.
By ELIA W. PEATTIE. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"'The Beleaguered Forest' is not a novel--it is a romance; it is
not a romance--it is a poem."--_Chicago Post._
Shacklett.
A Story of American Politics. By WALTER BARR. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"As a picture of American political life and possibilities it is
wonderfully vivid and truthful."--_Brooklyn Eagle._
Four-Leaved Clover.
By MAXWELL GRAY, author of "The Silence of Dean Maitland." 12mo. Cloth,
11.00; paper, 50 cents.
"An honest piece of work by a story-teller who knows her trade
thoroughly.... It is a book which ought to be in every
hammock."--_Pittsburg Commercial Gazette._
A Woman Alone.
By Mrs. W. K. CLIFFORD, author of "Love Letters of a Worldly Woman."
12mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
"Mrs. Clifford is an adroit writer, whose knowledge of the world
and whose brilliancy have not destroyed in her a simple tenderness
to which every sensitive reader must respond."--_Chicago Tribune._
Mills of God.
By ELINOR MACARTNEY LANE. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"It is a good novel in comparison with even the best in current
American fiction. Its author, in this her maiden effort, easily
takes her place among the Churchills and the Johnstons and the
Runkles."--_New York Herald._
The Seal of Silence.
By ARTHUR R. CONDER. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
"A novel of marked originality, of extraordinary strength.... I
recommend this very dramatic and exciting story, with its quaint
love interest and its dry, quiet humor, to all lovers of a good
story capitally conceived and happily told."--GEORGE S. GOODWIN, in
_Philadelphia Item_.
* * * * *
BOOKS BY GILBERT PARKER.
Uniform Edition.
* * * * *
The Seats of the Mighty.
Being the Memoirs of Captain Robert Moray, sometime an Officer in the
Virginia Regiment, and afterwards of Amherst's Regiment. Illustrated,
$1.50.
"Another historical romance of the vividness and intensity of 'The
Seats of the Mighty' has never come from the pen of an American.
Mr. Parker's latest work may without hesitation be set down as the
best he has done. From the first chapter to the last word interest
in the book never wanes; one finds it difficult to interrupt the
narrative with breathing space. It whirls with excitement and
strange adventure.... All of the scenes do homage to the genius of
Mr. Parker, and make 'The Seats of the Mighty' one of the books of
the year."--_Chicago Record._
"Mr. Gilbert Parker is to be congratulated on the excellence of his
latest story, 'The Seats of the Mighty,' and his readers are to be
congratulated on the direction which his talents have taken
therein.... It is so good that we do not stop to think of its
literature, and the personality of Doltaire is a masterpiece of
creative art."--_New York Mail and Express._
The Trail of the Sword. A Novel. $1.25.
"Mr. Parker here adds to a reputation already wide, and anew
demonstrates his power of pictorial portrayal and of strong
dramatic situation and climax."--_Philadelphia Bulletin._
The Trespasser. $1.25.
"Interest, pith, force, and charm--Mr. Parker's new story possesses
all these qualities.... Almost bare of synthetical decoration, his
paragraphs are stirring because they are real. We read at times--as
we have read the great masters of romance--breathlessly."--_The
Critic._
The Translation of a Savage. $ 1.25.
"A book which no one will be satisfied to put down until the end
has been matter of certainty and assurance."--_The Nation._
Mrs. Falchion. $1.25.
"A well-knit story, told in an exceedingly interesting way, and
holding the reader's attention to the end."
* * * * *
The Pomp of the Lavilettes. 16mo. Cloth, $1.25.
"Its sincerity and rugged force will commend it to those who love
and seek strong work in fiction."--_The Critic._
* * * * *
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
* * * * *