heart leaping and cracking in my throat. That face was only turned on me
for a moment, and then away again, but I knew it to be the genuine
thing; not apprehension, not foreboding, not a feeling of being
startled, but Fear, cold Fear. And then though nothing had occurred to
assuage the Fear, it passed, and a certain sort of reason usurped--for
so I must say--its place. I had certainly seen somebody on the gravel
outside the house; I had supposed he was going to the front-door. I had
opened it, and found he had not come to the front-door. Or--and once
again the terror resurged--had the invisible pushing thing been that
which I had seen outside? And if so, what was it? And how came it that
the face and figure of the man I had seen was the same as that which was
so scrupulously painted in the picture of the brick-kiln?
I set myself to argue down the Fear for which there was no more
foundation than this, this and the repetition of the ringing bell, and
my belief is that I did so. I told myself, till I believed it, that a
man--a human man--had been walking across the gravel outside, and that
he had not come to the front-door but had gone, as he might easily have
done, up the drive into the high-road. I told myself that it was mere
fancy that was the cause of the belief that Something had pushed in by
me, and as for the ringing of the bell, I said to myself, as was true,
that this had happened before. And I must ask the reader to believe also
that I argued these things away, and looked no longer on the face of
Fear itself. I was not comfortable, but I fell short of being terrified.
I sat down again by the window looking on to the gravel in front of the
house, and finding another letter that asked, though it did not demand
an answer, proceeded to occupy myself with it. Straight in front led the
drive through the gap in the pines, and passed through the field where
lay the brick-kiln. In a pause of page-turning I looked up and saw
something unusual about it; at the same moment an unusual smell came to
my nostril. What I saw was smoke coming out of the chimney of the kiln,
what I smelt was the odour of roasting meat. The wind--such as there
was--set from the kiln to the house. But as far as I knew the smell of
roast meat probably came from the kitchen where dinner, so I supposed,
was cooking. I had to tell myself this: I wanted reassurance, lest the
face of Fear should look whitely on me again.
Then there came a crisp step on the gravel, a rattle at the front-door,
and Jack came in.
“Good sport,” he said, “you gave up too soon.”
And he went straight to the table above which hung the picture of the
man at the brick-kiln, and looked at it. Then there was silence; and
eventually I spoke, for I wanted to know one thing.
“Seen anybody?” I asked.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Because I have also; the man in that picture.”
Jack came and sat down near me.
“It’s a ghost, you know,” he said. “He came down to the river about dusk
and stood near me for an hour. At first I thought he was--was real, and
I warned him that he had better stand further off if he didn’t want to
be hooked. And then it struck me he wasn’t real, and I cast, well, right
through him, and about seven he walked up towards the house.”
“Were you frightened?”
“No. It was so tremendously interesting. So you saw him here too.
Whereabouts?”
“Just outside. I think he is in the house now.”
Jack looked round.
“Did you see him come in?” he asked.
“No, but I felt him. There’s another queer thing too; the chimney of the
brick-kiln is smoking.”
Jack looked out of the window. It was nearly dark but the wreathing
smoke could just be seen.
“So it is,” he said, “fat, greasy smoke. I think I’ll go up and see
what’s on. Come too?”
“I think not,” I said.
“Are you frightened? It isn’t worth while. Besides, it is so
tremendously interesting.”
Jack came back from his little expedition still interested. He had found
nothing stirring at the kiln, but though it was then nearly dark the
interior was faintly luminous, and against the black of the sky he could
see a wisp of thick white smoke floating northwards. But for the rest of
the evening we neither heard nor saw anything of abnormal import, and
the next day ran a course of undisturbed hours. Then suddenly a hellish
activity was manifested.
That night, while I was undressing for bed, I heard a bell ring
furiously, and I thought I heard a shout also. I guessed where the ring
came from, since Franklyn and his wife had long ago gone to bed, and
went straight to Jack’s room. But as I tapped at the door I heard his
voice from inside calling loud to me. “Take care,” it said, “he’s close
to the door.”
A sudden qualm of blank fear took hold of me, but mastering it as best I
could, I opened the door to enter, and once again something pushed
softly by me, though I saw nothing.
Jack was standing by his bed, half-undressed. I saw him wipe his
forehead with the back of his hand.
“He’s been here again,” he said. “I was standing just here, a minute
ago, when I found him close by me. He came out of the inner room, I
think. Did you see what he had in his hand?”
“I saw nothing.”
“It was a knife; a great long carving knife. Do you mind my sleeping on
the sofa in your room to-night? I got an awful turn then. There was
another thing too. All round the edge of his clothes, at his collar and
at his wrists, there were little flames playing, little white licking
flames.”
* * * * *
But next day, again, we neither heard nor saw anything, nor that night
did the sense of that dreadful presence in the house come to us. And
then came the last day. We had been out till it was dark, and as I said,
had a wonderful day among the fish. On reaching home we sat together in
the sitting-room, when suddenly from overhead came a tread of feet, a
violent pealing of the bell, and the moment after yell after yell as of
someone in mortal agony. The thought occurred to both of us that this
might be Mrs Franklyn in terror of some fearful sight, and together we
rushed up and sprang into Jack’s bedroom.
The doorway into the room beyond was open, and just inside it we saw the
man bending over some dark huddled object. Though the room was dark we
could see him perfectly, for a light stale and impure seemed to come
from him. He had again a long knife in his hand, and as we entered he
was wiping it on the mass that lay at his feet. Then he took it up, and
we saw what it was, a woman with head nearly severed. But it was not Mrs
Franklyn.
And then the whole thing vanished, and we were standing looking into a
dark and empty room. We went downstairs without a word, and it was not
till we were both in the sitting-room below that Jack spoke.
“And he takes her to the brick-kiln,” he said rather unsteadily. “I say,
have you had enough of this house? I have. There is hell in it.”
* * * * *
About a week later Jack put into my hand a guidebook to Sussex open at
the description of Trevor Major, and I read:
“Just outside the village stands the picturesque manor house, once the
home of the artist and notorious murderer, Francis Adam. It was here he
killed his wife, in a fit, it is believed, of groundless jealousy,
cutting her throat and disposing of her remains by burning them in a
brick-kiln. Certain charred fragments found six months afterwards led to
his arrest and execution.”
* * * * *
So I prefer to leave the house with the brick-kiln and the pictures
signed F. A. to others.
TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH
OBSERVER.--“_Miss Stevens has really leaped to the front rank among
writers of fiction._”
THE LURE
BY
E. S. STEVENS
Author of “The Veil” and “The Mountain of God,” etc.
_Crown 8vo_, =6s.=
The lure of adventure, the lure of a strong and unscrupulous
personality, and the lure of the Dark Continent, play their parts in
this story. Anne, the woman of the book, comes under the influence of
all three, to learn at the last that they have only enchained her
imagination and not her heart. A great part of this notable novel takes
place in the less known parts of the Soudan, where the main actors in
the drama meet and work out their destinies. The background is that vast
land of the elephant, the crocodile, and the hippopotamus, where
solitary Englishmen are loyally serving their country and civilisation,
without vainglory or hope of reward. THE LURE will be one of the most
remarkable novels of 1912.
_Novels by E. S. Stevens_
THE VEIL. 6_s._ (Cloth.)
Do. 1_s._ (Paper.)
THE MOUNTAIN OF GOD. 6_s._ (Cloth.)
Do. 1_s._ (Paper.)
THE EARTHEN DRUM. 6_s._ (Eastern Stories.)
_Make the acquaintance of E. S. Stevens immediately_
MILLS & BOON, LTD., 49 RUPERT ST., LONDON, W.
_A Remarkable Indian Romance_
THE DAUGHTER OF BRAHMA
By I. A. R. WYLIE
Author of “The Rajah’s People” and “Dividing Waters”
_Crown 8vo_, =6s.=
In THE DAUGHTER OF BRAHMA we are transported back to the mysterious
atmosphere and brilliant Oriental colourings which marked the author’s
first novel, “The Rajah’s People.” But here the complications of race
and religion in India are faced from another standpoint--that of the
woman. With profound sympathy we follow the wonderful moral and
spiritual growth of the daughter of Brahma, whose fate becomes so
strangely linked with that of the hero. With an equal interest,
moreover, the reader is led step by step through an absorbing plot, in
which all the hidden religious and political life of India is revealed
in striking colours, until the final crisis is reached. The crisis,
indeed, is an intensely dramatic and tragic one; but it satisfies not
only by its truth, but by the promise of future happiness which it
brings with it. The story draws into it many minor characters, who, like
the two chief figures, win both interest and sympathy by their
originality and life-like portraiture.
_Mills & Boon confidently recommend THE DAUGHTER OF BRAHMA as one
of the finest novels of 1912._
MILLS & BOON, LTD., 49 RUPERT ST., LONDON, W.
_A Notable Novel_
Some years ago there appeared a very notable novel which Mills & Boon
believe has got lost sight of in the rush of Fiction so energetically
published by almost every firm. It was entitled--
AN ENGLISHMAN
By MARY PENDERED
How many readers of to-day remember it? Mills & Boon will shortly issue
a new and revised edition at =6s.=, and they hope the public will not miss
this chance of reading one of the finest novels of the last fifteen
years. Some reviews are here given which appeared when the book was
originally published.
“We have nothing but admiration for this very noble book. It is by
far the most important the season has yet produced. It is filled
with wisdom and sympathy, and in the Englishman of the title the
author has created a _man_.”--_Literary World._
* * * * *
“As thoroughly English as ‘Middlemarch’ or ‘Cranford.’”--_Sunday
Times._
* * * * *
“A thoroughly wholesome, sympathetic, effective story, the interest
of which is sustained with unbroken continuity from its opening to
its close.... Handled with remarkable adroitness, and manifesting
no inconsiderable originality of characterisation.
“Miss Pendered’s ‘Englishman’ possesses that width of observation
and simplicity of purpose which lift it far above the
average.”--_Daily Telegraph._
(W. L. Courtney in his summary of the best book of the year 1899.)
MILLS & BOON, Ltd., 49 Rupert Street, London, W.
MILLS & BOON
have just published two of the brightest novels issued recently. All
fiction readers should get =MAUDE ANNESLEY’S=
ALL AWRY
which is a story of delicious adventure. (Second edition.) =6/-=
Please read what the Critics say:
_T.P.’s Weekly._--“So vivid and entertaining that we read on and on
as if there had never been a ‘Robinson Crusoe.’ In ‘All Awry’ Miss
Annesley has certainly put the best work she has yet done.... I
expect ‘All Awry’ to be one of the most widely read books of the
year.”
_Observer._--“By far the best story Miss Annesley has given us.”
_Globe._--“Miss Annesley has written nothing better than ‘All
Awry.’”
Another delightful novel just issued is =EDGAR JEPSON’S=
POLLYOOLY
the most delightful gift book of the year for young and old. (Second
edition.) =6/-=
_Pall Mall Gazette._--“An original creation. ‘Pollyooly’ never lets
us be dull for a moment, and provides us with the liveliest
entertainment. Mr. Jepson is to be congratulated on a new triumph.”
_Daily Express._--“The jolliest little heroine imaginable....
‘Pollyooly’ is a veritable panacea for the hump.”
_Sheffield Telegraph._--“A very delightful child study. The chief
charm of the book is its laughter, light hearted, gay, and
continuing to the last page of the last chapter.”
_Daily Mail._--“Delightful reading from cover to cover. Brimful of
genuine humour, which is never forced and therefore never palls.”
=ALL AWRY= and =POLLYOOLY= can be read by fathers, mothers, sons and
daughters. They are the two jolliest novels published this year.
There is always a New MILLS & BOON NOVEL--Here is a NOVEL MILLS & BOON
IDEA
THE GOLFER’S POCKET TIP BOOK
Pocket size, leather, =5/-= net. (Second edition.)
By G. D. FOX (Part Author of “The 6 H’cap Golfer’s Companion, as.
6d. net”). Containing the Revised Rules of Golf, a Chapter on
Putting by, and 34 Illustrations of, Jack White, Chart of Stroke
Allowances, &c.
=Harry Vardon says=:--“It is a very handy little book.”
“Concise, clear, crisp, brief and business-like, worth as a teacher
half-a-dozen ordinary books.”--_Morning Post._
“The text-book _de luxe_.”--_World of Golf._
“_The golfer has certain human qualities, delighting in receiving
presents._
_And I have found the very thing!_
_It is called ‘The Golfer’s Pocket Tip Book.’_”--_Manchester Daily
Dispatch._
“One of the very best golfing volumes yet published.”--_Sporting
Life._
Uniform with this Volume is =THE MOTORIST’S POCKET TIP BOOK=. By Geoffrey
Osborn. =5/-= net. At all Booksellers.
MILLS & BOON, Ltd., 49 Rupert Street, London, W.
MY GERMAN YEAR
By I. A. R. WYLIE
AUTHOR OF “IN DIFFERENT KEYS,” “DIVIDING WATERS,” “THE RAJAH’S PEOPLE,”
ETC.
With 2 Illustrations in colour, and 18 from Photographs
Second Edition. Demy 8vo. =10s. 6d.= net
The _Westminster Gazette_ has reviewed “My German Year” as “a vivid,
attractive, and really informing volume,” and also as “wise,
well-informed, and very readable, with some delightful fresh information
and shrewd criticisms.” Also saying: “We close ‘My German Year’ with a
feeling of gratitude for very good entertainment all through, and with a
sense that though on a good many minor points the writer is led by her
enthusiasm to see matters in a far too roseate light, she has used her
brain and her eyes to good purpose during her ‘German Year,’ and has
written a book which suffers in no way by the fact that the last few
years have seen the publication in this country of several volumes on
the same subject.”
The _Evening Standard_ (also a lengthy notice) said: “We have seldom
read a more interesting book than ‘My German Year.’ Miss Wylie’s words
are often bitter to the taste, still more bitter very often is what she
leaves unsaid, the obvious inferences she hands on to us to draw, but it
is all extremely salutary, and should be read by every householder in
the land.”
MY ITALIAN YEAR
By RICHARD BAGOT
AUTHOR OF “CASTING OF NETS,” “A ROMAN MYSTERY,” “DONNA DIANA” “THE LAKES
OF NORTHERN ITALY,” “THE HOUSE OF SERRAVALLE,” ETC.
With 25 Illustrations
Second Edition. Demy 8vo. =10s. 6d.= net
_Daily Mail._--“It is this new Italy--the country of the future and not
of the past--which forms the subject of Mr Bagot’s absorbingly
interesting pages. Twenty years’ residence in the country and a sound
knowledge of its language have enabled Mr Bagot to penetrate deeply into
the character not only of the Italian in general, but of the numerous
races that form the Italian nation; to form a just estimate of Italian
institutions, politics, social life, customs, and aspirations. He does
this with absolute impartiality, distributing praise and blame from the
vantage-point of his exceptional experience. For Mr Bagot appears to
have explored every corner of the country, and to have associated with
every class of its population.”
_Daily Telegraph._--“It is a thoughtful, knowledgeful book that Mr Bagot
has given us, and one that intending visitors to Italy will do well to
read and ponder over.”
_Daily Graphic._--“Mr Bagot’s book is a highly interesting and
sympathetic description of Italian life in all its phases.”
MILLS & BOON, Ltd., 49 Rupert Street, London, W.
MILLS & BOON’S
SHILLING NOVELS
=THE MOUNTAIN OF GOD.= By E. S. STEVENS.
=THE VEIL.= By E. S. STEVENS.
=THE RAJAH’S PEOPLE.= By I. A. R. WYLIE.
=DOWN OUR STREET.= By J. E. BUCKROSE.
=THE PEER’S PROGRESS.= By J. STORER CLOUSTON.
=THE PRODIGAL FATHER.= By J. STORER CLOUSTON.
=TALES OF KING FIDO.= By J. STORER CLOUSTON.
=THE LOVE STORY OF A MORMON.= By WINIFRED GRAHAM.
=THE ENEMY OF WOMAN.= By WINIFRED GRAHAM.
=MARY.= By WINIFRED GRAHAM.
=THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN.= By HORACE W. C. NEWTE.
=CALICO JACK=: A Story of the Music Halls. By HORACE W. C. NEWTE.
=THE LONELY LOVERS.= By HORACE W. C. NEWTE.
=SPARROWS.= The Story of an Unprotected Girl. By HORACE W. C. NEWTE.
=CARDILLAC.= By ROBERT BARR.
=813= (A new Arsène Lupin Adventure). By MAURICE LEBLANC.
=MARY UP AT GAFFRIES.= By S. C. NETHERSOLE.
=THE WOMAN WHO FORGOT.= By LADY TROUBRIDGE.
=CUMNER’S SON.= By GILBERT PARKER.
*=THE BILL-TOPPERS.= By ANDRÉ CASTAIGNE.
*=THE QUAKER GIRL.= By HAROLD SIMPSON.
*=THE COUNT OF LUXEMBOURG.= By HAROLD SIMPSON.
*=THE DOLLAR PRINCESS.= By HAROLD SIMPSON.
*=ARSÈNE LUPIN.= By EDGAR JEPSON and MAURICE LEBLANC.
*=D’ARCY OF THE GUARDS.= By L. E. SHIPMAN.
=PETER PAN= (The Fairy Story of the Play). By G. D. DRENNAN.
=BEWARE OF THE DOG.= By Mrs BAILLIE REYNOLDS.
=FOR CHURCH AND CHIEFTAIN.= By MAY WYNNE.
=THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN JACK.= By MAX PEMBERTON.
=THE END AND THE BEGINNING.= By COSMO HAMILTON.
=WEE MACGREEGOR.= By J. J. B.
=PROOFS BEFORE PULPING.= By BARRY PAIN.
=THOMAS HENRY.= By W. PETT RIDGE.
* Novels of the Plays.
MILLS & BOON, Ltd., 49 Rupert Street, London, W.
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
greath depth=> great depth {pg 54}
never pentrate=> never penetrate {pg 184}
clear chalk-streami=> clear chalk-streams {pg 331}
minature-like elaboration=> miniature-like elaboration {pg 326}