'As the water is dried upon sands, so a life flieth
back to the dust.'--SIR ALFRED LYALL.
How Sibyl spent the morning that followed she never knew. She dared not
go out of doors. The world of spring, with the new breath of life in it,
mocked her. The song of the birds hurt her. She felt as if she should
scream outright if she saw the may-blossom against the sky. She wandered
aimlessly about the house, and at last crept back to her own room and
lay down on her bed, and turned her face to the wall.
The day went on. Her maid brought her soup, and drew down the blinds,
and was pettishly dismissed.
The afternoon came. They were mowing the grass on the terrace on the
south front. The faint scent of newly-cut grass came in through the open
window, and seemed, through the senses, to reach some acute nerve of the
brain. She moaned, and buried her face in the pillows. Presently the
mowing ceased, and everything became very silent. A bluebottle fly,
pressed for time, rushed in, made the circuit of the room, and rushed
out again.
Far away in the other wing, on the ground-floor, she heard the library
door open. She knew Mr. Loftus's slow, even step. It crossed the hall;
it entered the orangery; it came out through the orangery door, down the
stone steps to the terrace below her window. She could hear his step on
the gravel outside in the crisp air. Crack gave a short bark in
recognition of the spring, and satisfaction that the long morning of
arranging papers and the afternoon of letter-writing were at last over.
The steps dwindled and died away into the sunny silence. It seemed to
Sibyl's overwrought mind that he was walking slowly out of her life, and
that unless she made haste to follow him she would lose him altogether.
With a sudden revulsion of feeling, she sprang to her feet, and put on
her hat and shoes. Then she braved the spring, and went swiftly out.
* * * * *
A great tranquillity had fallen upon Mr. Loftus. He had made up his
mind. After a turn along the terrace, he and Crack went into the little
wood near the gardens, and sat down under the pink horse-chestnut-tree,
just blushing into flower. It would have been difficult to put the
arrangement into words, but there was a tacit understanding between the
husband and wife that when Mr. Loftus sat under that particular tree he
did not mind being interrupted. Sibyl generally fluttered out to him
after he had been there a few minutes, though the wood was out of sight
of the windows. And he waited for her to come to him now.
Spring had returned at last. But you might have walked through the wood
and not known she was there: have seen only the naked trees, and the
gray twigs of the alder, bleached white where the rabbits had bitten
them in the frost. But if you had stopped to listen and look as Mr.
Loftus did, you would have seen and heard her; seen her in the blue
haze, and the mystery of change that lurked among the gray twigs, and in
the rare primroses among the brown leaves; heard her in the persistent
double-tongue of the chiff-chaff, and, not near at hand, but two trees
away, in the ripple of the goldfinch, with a little question at the end
of it. Is it a hint of immortality, that haunting desire and expectation
of happiness which comes with the primroses, that longing for some
future year when the spring shall bring with it no heartache, the autumn
no contrition; of another year, somewhere in the future, when the ills
of life will be done away? Mr. Loftus looked straight in front of him,
and his face took an expression as of one whose eyes are on a goal where
even patience itself, so visible in every line of his quiet face, will
at last with other burdens be laid aside.
She saw him before he saw her, as she came towards him. Her heart went
out to him wistfully and passionately by turns. She longed to turn to
him as a young wife turns to a young husband, and cry her heart out on
his breast, and be petted, and caressed, and comforted. But she dared
not. Whatever besides she was ignorant of, she had learnt certain things
about her husband, and one of them was that she must never show her
devotion unasked. And she was seldom asked. Her life was a constant
repression of its greatest, its only real affection.
As she came towards him he roused himself and smiled at her. She sat
down by him in silence. He had a single primrose in the buttonhole of
his coat, and he took it out and drew it very gently through the
Russian embroidery on her bodice.
'When I was young, Sibyl,' he said, 'I was convinced, and the conviction
has never wholly left me, that flowers are God's thoughts which He sows
broadcast in the hearts of all alike. But we will have none of them, and
they drop unheeded to the ground. But the faithful earth receives
them--thoughts despised and rejected of us--and nurses them in her
bosom, and they come forth transfigured. And that is why, when we see
them again, we love them so much, and feel akin to them.'
Her locked hands trembled on her knee.
'It must have been a beautiful thought that could turn into a lily,' he
went on, noting, but ignoring, her emotion. 'I wonder, if it had fallen
into a poet's heart, what it would have grown into. Nothing more
beautiful, I think. And I know the primroses are first love. I have felt
sure of that always. I wonder, my Sibyl, when there is so much in your
heart for me, that there are any left to come out in the woods; but
there are a few, you see, among the brown leaves.'
'They will soon be over,' said Sibyl, turning her head away.
'Yes,' said Mr. Loftus, with a gentleness which was new to Sibyl, and he
was always gentle. 'They will die presently, as first love dies. But
nevertheless it is a beautiful gift while it lasts, and we must not
grieve because, like the primroses, it cannot last in flower _for ever_.
I have lived through so many feelings, Sibyl, I have seen so many die
which seemed immortal, that I have long since ceased to count on the
permanence of any.'
He leant towards her, and for the first time he took her slender hands
and kissed them. It was as if he were readjusting his position towards
her, reassuring her of his trust and confidence and sympathy, supporting
her in some great trouble. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder,
and a sense of comfort came across her desolation, as if she were
leaning her faint soul against his soul. He put his arm round her, and
drew her closer to him.
'My darling!' he said, and there was an emotion in his voice which she
had never heard in it before. Her hat had slipped off, and he passed his
hand very tenderly over her hair.
Sibyl's over-strained nerves relaxed. Some of the craving of her heart
and its long yearning was stilled by the touch of his hand. Ah! he
loved her, after all--certainly he loved her. Doll was right, after all.
How foolish she had been to cry all night! Certainly he loved her.
She could not speak. She could not weep. She could only lean against
him. She had never known him like this before. It was this that she had
always wanted, all her life, long before she had ever met him.
'You have been so good to me,' he went on, 'from the first day of our
married life when I was ill. Do you remember? And I know that your dear
love and kindness will not fail me while I live. I thank and bless you
for all you have given me, your whole spring of primroses; and now that
spring is passing, as it must, Sibyl, as it must, not by your fault,
take comfort, and when other feelings come into your heart, as they
have come in, do not reproach yourself, do not cut me to the heart by
grieving, but remember that I understand, and that my love and honour
and gratitude can never change towards you, and that I too was young
once: as young as--Doll, and there is no need for you and him to be so
miserable. It will only be--like a--long engagement.'
As the drift of his words gradually became clear to her, Sibyl
insensibly shrank back as from an abyss before her feet. But in another
moment she took in their whole meaning. She pushed him from her with
sudden violence, and stood before him, her hands clenched, her eyes
blazing, her slender figure shaking with passion.
'How dare you!' she stammered. 'How dare you insult me?'
He put out his hand feebly, and she struck it down.
'What is Doll to me?' she went on, 'to me, _your wife_! Oh, will you
never, never understand that I love you, that I worship you, that I care
for nothing in the whole world but you, and that I cried all night
because you married me out of pity?' Sibyl wrung her hands. 'Oh! how
dared you do it, how dared you swear to love me before God, if you did
not, if you could not? I am too miserable. I cannot bear it--I cannot
bear it!'
He sat like one stunned. His hand went to his heart.
In a moment her arms were round him, and his head was on her shoulder.
'Forgive,' he repeated over and over again, between the long-drawn
gasps which shook him from head to foot.
And then the battle for life began.
She found his little flask in his pocket, and managed to make him
swallow the contents.
He struggled, but she upheld him. Her strength was as the strength of
ten.
At last, all in a moment, the struggle ceased, and a light came into his
fixed eyes of awe and thankfulness, and--was it joy?
He did not move. He did not speak. His whole being seemed absorbed in
that of some vast enfolding presence.
She called him wildly by name.
He trembled, and his troubled eyes, with all the light blown out of
them, wandered back to seek hers. Death looked at her through them. He
saw her as across a gulf. He recognised her. He remembered. He had
hoped that when he came to die it might be quietly, without a scene, but
it was not to be. He made a last effort.
'Not for pity--for----' he gasped, his ebbing breath winnowing the air.
But Death cut short the lie faltering on his lips, and his head fell
suddenly forward on her breast. She held him closely to her, murmuring
incoherent words of love and tenderness, such as she had never dared to
speak while he had ears to hear.
* * * * *
How long she had knelt beside him, holding him in her arms, the
frightened servants, who at last found them after sunset, never knew.
And when they came to lay him in his coffin, they saw on one of the thin
folded hands a faint blue mark, as from a blow.
POSTSCRIPT.
Sibyl was an inconsolable widow. Her grief reached a depth which placed
her beyond the succour of human sympathy, and Lady Pierpoint, who had
lost her young husband in her youth, was felt to take a superficial view
of Sibyl's bereavement.
She shut herself up at Wilderleigh for a year and refused comfort, and
then suddenly married Doll, the only man except Mr. Gresley whom she had
allowed to see her during her widowhood.
In rather less than a month after her marriage with him she made the
interesting discovery that he was the only man in the world who really
understood her. His gift of platitude, harmonizing as it did with hers,
was an inexhaustible source of admiration to her. She was wont to say in
confidence to her woman friends, that, devotedly as she had loved her
first husband, she had found her ideal in her second one; and that it
was to Doll she owed the real development of her character, a subject in
which she took great interest.
For some years, while her daughter remained an only child, she was
passionately devoted to her. But when her son was born she ceased to
take much interest in the little girl, who was by this, time rather
spoilt, and consequently tiresome. Doll, who proved exemplary in
domestic life, took to her when Sibyl forgot her, and became deeply
attached to her. Later in life Sibyl became inconsolably jealous of her
daughter.
THE END.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
NOVELS FROM
_MR. EDWARD ARNOLD'S LIST_.
By the Author of 'The Red Badge of Courage.'
GEORGE'S MOTHER.
BY STEPHEN CRANE.
Cloth, 2s.
_Saturday Review._
'From first to last it goes with immense vigour and sympathy. But the
story must be read for its power to be understood; quotation fails, for
the simple reason that it is a bare story and nothing beyond. Apart from
its distinctive qualities, English readers will welcome this book as an
indication of the growth of a real and independent critical method
across the Atlantic, side by side and directing really original work.'
_Athenæum._
'A striking scene of the relations, in a rough world, between a boy and
his mother.'
_Speaker._
'Stephen Crane proved conclusively in "The Red Badge of Courage" his
possession of an extraordinary power of vivid and accurate vision
expressed with startling poignancy of phrase; and in his later
production, "George's Mother," we find the same rugged directness and
almost savage intensity, the same contempt for conventional graces of
style, and the love for violent colouring, which marked his previous
work.'
_Daily Chronicle._
'The gradual progress of deterioration in George Kelcey is very briefly
but very cleverly and convincingly set out.'
_St. James's Gazette._
'It is a _tour de force_ of description and analysis, this terrible
scene of George's debauch--not in the least laboured, or Zolaistic, or
photographic, but amazingly actual, and lightened with a grim sense of
humour.'
By the Author of 'Into the Highways and Hedges.'
WORTH WHILE.
BY F. F. MONTRÉSOR,
Author of 'Into the Highways and Hedges,' 'The One Who Looked on.'
Crown 8vo., cloth, 2s. 6d.
_Academy._
'The quiet excellence of Miss Montrésor's little book may likely enough
cause it to lie unnoticed among its thrilling companions. There is, none
the less, more of art and literature in two short sketches than one is
likely to meet with again in a hurry. If inferior work, gaudily
bedraped, gets all the encores, in the shape of many editions, I cannot
think she will greatly care. Such work as hers only comes, as the
proverb has it, by prayer and fasting. And she will receive ungrudging
praise from those who revere sterling merit, and respect labour at once
unobtrusive, competent, sincere.'
_Guardian._
'"Worth While" is a real idyll of a life's sacrifice, most sweetly and
touchingly told.'
_Glasgow Herald._
'Both the stories in this volume are of very superior quality. The
characters are distinctly original, and the workmanship is admirable.'
_Manchester Mercury._
'Although the two stories contained in the present volume are
comparatively short, they serve to display the author's peculiar gifts
in a striking manner.'
_Liverpool Courier._
'Two most pathetic and beautiful stories make up this little volume. The
writer is to be congratulated on the delicate beauty of her stories.'
By the Author of 'The Apotheosis of Mr. Tyrawley.'
A MASK AND A MARTYR.
BY E. LIVINGSTON PRESCOTT.
One vol., crown 8vo., cloth, 6s.
_Westminster Gazette._
'This is an undeniably clever book. A picture of self-sacrifice so
complete and so enduring is a rare picture in fiction, and has rarely
been more ably or more finely drawn. This singular and pathetic story is
told all through with remarkable restraint, and shows a strength and
skill of execution which place its author high among the novel-writers
of the day.'
_Daily Telegraph._
'There is no doubt that this is a striking book. The story it has to
tell is thoroughly original and unconventional, while the manner of
telling shows much restrained power.'
_Spectator._
'Mr. Prescott has evidently a future before him.'
_Pall Mall Gazette._
'Mr. Prescott has given us a clever and an interesting book. We have
seldom read of such superhuman courage, such transcendent love, as Mr.
Prescott has shown us in his masterly picture of Captain Cosmo
Harradyne, of the Fighting Hussars. A story which we confidently, nay,
earnestly, recommend to our readers; they will thank us for doing so.'
_National Observer._
'A book which has much cleverness of treatment, an excellent style, a
great deal of interest, a high ideal, and a real pathos. Perhaps it is
not necessary to add that a novel of which so much can be said is one
greatly above the common run of fiction. The book should be, and we have
no doubt will be, read with real interest by many people.'
'One of the best stories of the season.'--_Daily Chronicle._
HADJIRA,
_A TURKISH LOVE STORY_.
BY ADALET.
One volume, crown 8vo., cloth, 6s.
_Speaker._
'Certainly one of the most interesting and valuable works of fiction
issued from the press for a long time past. Even if we were to regard
the book as an ordinary novel, we could commend it heartily; but its
great value lies in the fact that it reveals to us a hidden world, and
does so with manifest fidelity. But the reader must learn for himself
the lesson which this remarkable and fascinating book teaches.'
_Daily Chronicle._
'A Turkish love story written in excellent English by a young Ottoman
lady, would be a book worth reading, if only as a curiosity; but when,
as in this instance, it is of uncommon merit and originality, it is
particularly welcome. It is deeply interesting, fascinatingly so. It is
as a picture of family life in Turkey that this book is so interesting,
possibly because the picture it provides is unexpectedly agreeable. As a
study of Turkish life in our times, when Western civilization is
beginning to penetrate into the seclusion of the harem, this book is a
valuable contribution to contemporary literature. It is a well-merited
compliment to its author to say of "Hadjira" that it is one of the best
stories of the season.'
_Pall Mall Gazette._
'An interesting and readable book.'
_St. James's Gazette._
'The book is excellently written. As a clearly truthful account of
modern Turkish life, from the woman's point of view, it is as valuable
as it is interesting. We shall hope to have more from the same pen.'
_Guardian._
'A curiously interesting bit of work.'
A RELUCTANT EVANGELIST.
BY ALICE SPINNER,
Author of 'Lucilla,' 'A Study in Colour,' etc.
Crown 8vo., 1 vol., 6s.
_Saturday Review._
'"A Reluctant Evangelist" is as good as its predecessor "Lucilla," which
we were glad to be able to praise last year. The West Indies, with their
"colour problem," their weird romance and undercurrent of horror, will
last a long time as background for new stories.'
_Glasgow Herald._
'It is into the wonderland of the West Indies that Miss Spinner takes
us: into a region of hot sunshine, of blue sky, of sparkling sea. All
the stories are excellent, and will repay perusal.'
_Pall Mall Gazette._
'Good, too, is Miss Spinner's budget of short stories. "Buckra Tommie"
is an exquisitely pathetic story. The writer is evidently at home in the
South Seas, and with the out-of-the-way humanity she meets there.'
_Irish Times._
'A charming little series of stories. They are very daintily written,
and although the incidents upon which they turn are not always very
striking, they are at all events novel, and they have been conceived
with much dramatic power.'
_Cape Times._
'These short stories are all distinctly good.'
_Englishman._
'We can strongly recommend these stories. They are varied and
interesting, and have a distinct literary merit.'
INTERLUDES.
BY MAUD OXENDEN.
One volume, crown 8vo., 6s.
_Scotsman._
'The writer is to be congratulated on the strength with which she
portrays men and women, and describes the passions of love or of grief
that sometimes fill the mind. There are other personages in these pages,
whose experiences of love and joy and grief are under other
circumstances than those indicated; but if the writer had depicted none
other than the three personages that appear in the tragic scene in
London she would have scored a distinct success. An admirably-written
book.'
_Sheffield Telegraph._
'We have not read anything so tenderly touched with pathos, and at the
same time so delicately told, for a very long time. Indeed, "Interludes"
is about as good a piece of literary work of its class as we could wish
to read, and is worth a high place in the works which appeal to the
emotional in our nature.'
_Bradford Observer._
'The stories evince a considerable and disciplined faculty of invention
which, though it produces situations of intense interest, never becomes
riotous or extravagant. We will close our too brief note with an
expression of the pleasure we have felt in reading these chaste and
beautiful fancies.'
_Guardian._
'There is much that is both clever and original in Miss Oxenden's
"Interludes." There is often very genuine pathos, and nearly all the
volume is interesting.'
TWENTY-SECOND THOUSAND.
STEPHEN REMARX.
_THE STORY OF A VENTURE IN ETHICS._
BY THE HON. AND REV. JAMES ADDERLEY.
Small 8vo., elegantly bound, 3s. 6d.; paper, 1s.
_Daily Telegraph._
'Written with a vigour, warmth, and sincerity which cannot fail to
captivate the reader's attention and command his respect.'
_Saturday Review._
'Let us express our thankfulness at encountering, for once in a way, an
author who can amuse us.'
_Star._
'The book is charmingly written.'
_Guardian._
'Not only do we agree with Mr. Adderley in his general objects, and in
many of his fundamental principles, but we believe that the path of
reform lies very much in the direction to which he has pointed.'
_Daily Chronicle._
'The story is one of a novel kind, and many people will find it
interesting and very suggestive.'
_Rock._
'A little but very notable volume.'
_Record._
'A little book, but one of which much will be heard.'
DAVE'S SWEETHEART.
BY MARY GAUNT.
One vol., 8vo., cloth, 3s. 6d.
_Spectator._
'It is interesting to watch the literature which is coming over to us
from Australia, a portion of which is full of promise, but we may safely
say that of all the novels that have been laid before readers in this
country, "Dave's Sweetheart," in a literary point of view and as a
finished production, takes a higher place than any that has yet
appeared. From the opening scene to the closing page we have no
hesitation in predicting that not a word will be skipped even by the
most _blasé_ of novel readers.'
_Daily Telegraph._
'In every respect one of the most powerful and impressive novels of the
year.'
_Tablet._
'Essentially a strong book. The writer has a wonderfully clean way of
describing the elemental facts of life, and lets her plummet-line go
down deep into the depths of human tears. The book is of interest down
to the last line.'
_Weekly Sun._
'The narrative is throughout animated, and rises occasionally to heights
of great dramatic power, whilst the picture of life in the diggings is
delineated in a way that compels admiration.'
_Morning Post._
'The action is rapid and well-developed, the incidents exciting, as
becomes the nature of the subject, and the human interest unusually
deep.'
_Times._
'A vigorous and dramatic story of the early gold-digging days in
Victoria. "Dave's Sweetheart" is a good story.'
_Guardian._
'Many books of Australian life have come before us lately, and to none
of them are we inclined to give more honest praise than to "Dave's
Sweetheart."'
_Speaker._
'Alike from a dramatic and a literary point of view, "Dave's Sweetheart"
is admirably told, with restraint and with distinction.'
TOMMY ATKINS.
A Tale of the Ranks.
BY ROBERT BLATCHFORD,
Author of 'A Son of the Forge,' 'Merrie England,' etc.
Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth, 6s.
_Bradford Observer._
'A splendid narrative of the barrack life of the rank and file.'
_Eastern Morning News._
'There is not a dull page in the book.'
_Glasgow Herald._
'Most vigorous and picturesque sketches of barrack life.'
_Scotsman._
'Entertaining throughout, and reveals high literary ability.'
_Dundee Advertiser._
'A really vivacious book; the incidents are so well selected that the
reader never wearies from start to finish.'
_Liverpool Post._
'The book is both clever and amusing.'
_Broad Arrow._
'For this well-conceived, well-written, and well-informed little story
we have little but commendation to offer.'
THE BAYONET THAT CAME HOME.
BY N. WYNN WILLIAMS,
Author of 'Tales of Modern Greece.'
Crown 8vo., 3s. 6d.
_Dundee Advertiser._
'Well worth perusing.'
_National Observer._
'Mr. Williams's story of modern Greece throws a curious light on her
corrupt politics, on petty oppression, and on the conscription, with its
attendant hardships to the peasant population.'
_Glasgow Herald._
'A powerfully-written and vivid little story.'
By the Author of 'Aunt Anne.'
LOVE-LETTERS OF A WORLDLY WOMAN.
BY MRS. W. K. CLIFFORD,
Author of 'Aunt Anne,' 'Mrs. Keith's Crime,' etc.
Cloth, 2s. 6d.
_Queen._
'One of the cleverest books that ever a woman wrote.'
_Morning Post._
'It is that _rara avis_--a volume characterized by knowledge of human
nature and brightened by refined wit.'
_World._
'A book that will gladden the hearts of those who love literature for
its own sake.'
_Review of Reviews._
'Many writers have pictured to us a woman, but none more successfully
than Mrs. Clifford, whose Madge Brooke stands forth distinct and almost
flesh and blood--a human document.'
ON THE THRESHOLD.
BY ISABELLA O. FORD,
Author of 'Miss Blake, of Monkshalton.'
Cloth, 3s. 6d.
_Guardian._
'It is a relief to turn from many of the novels that come before us to
Miss Ford's true, penetrating, and sympathetic description of the lives
of some of the women of our day.'
_Bradford Observer._
'Those who have followed and admired Miss Ford's active social and
political work will be interested in this latest work of hers, and will
understand its special characteristics. It only remains to be added that
the literary workmanship of the book is excellent.'
_Hearth and Home._
'A decidedly clever book.'
MISTHER O'RYAN.
An Incident in the History of a Nation.
BY EDWARD MCNULTY.
Small 8vo., elegantly bound, 3s. 6d.
_National Observer._
'"Ould Paddy" and the "poor dark cratur" are as pathetic figures as any
we have met with in recent romance, and would alone stamp their creator
as a writer of real force and originality.'
_Pall Mall Gazette._
'An extremely well-written satire of the possibilities of blarney and
brag.'
_Bookman._
'An Irish story of far more than ordinary ability.'
_Church Times._
'A sad story, but full of racy Irish wit.'
_Yorkshire Post._
'It is a book to circulate everywhere, a book which, by its pathos and
its power, its simplicity and its vivid truth, will impress the mind as
the logic and the reasoning of the statesman too rarely do.'
ORMISDAL.
BY THE EARL OF DUNMORE, F.R.G.S.,
Author of 'The Pamirs.'
One vol., cloth, 6s.
_Glasgow Herald._
'In this breezy and entertaining novel Lord Dunmore has given us a very
readable and racy story of the life that centres in a Highland shooting,
about the end of August.'
_St. James's Gazette._
'The impression left on the mind after laying down "Ormisdal" is that
Lord Dunmore is a remarkably lucky man to lead such a pleasant life
among such charming people and in such charming places, and that
everybody will be delighted to hear from him again, when he has more of
the same sort to tell us, whether he wraps it up in a book of personal
anecdote or a novel.'
THAT FIDDLER FELLOW.
_A TALE OF ST. ANDREWS._
BY HORACE G. HUTCHINSON,
Author of 'My Wife's Politics,' 'Golf,' 'Creatures of Circumstance,'
etc.
Popular edition, crown 8vo., cloth, 2s. 6d.
_Spectator._
'A singularly ingenious and interesting tale.'
_The World._
'What Mr. Hutchinson writes is always pleasant to read.'
_The Guardian._
'A strange history of hypnotism and crime, which will delight any lover
of the grim and terrible.'
_National Observer._
'An excellent story.'
THE BONDWOMAN.
_A STORY OF THE NORTHMEN IN LAKELAND._
BY W. G. COLLINGWOOD,
Author of 'Thorstein of the Mere,' 'The Life and Work of John Ruskin,'
etc.
Cloth, 16mo., 3s. 6d.
_Leeds Mercury._
'As for the thrilling details of the plot, and the other sterling charms
of the little work, we must refer our readers to its pages, especially
those of them who may be touring, or contemplating a tour, in
Westmorland and Cumberland.'
_Manchester Guardian._
'Mr. Collingwood has attempted the almost impossible task of
constructing the social life of a remote period, of evolving from dry
and doubtful specimens the pulse and colour of a bygone age, and his
success has been remarkable.'
_Glasgow Herald._
'His story is a stirring and vigorous one, which can hardly fail to take
hold of the imagination and leave a vivid impression on it.'
TWO FAMOUS FRENCH NOVELS.
THE TUTOR'S SECRET.
(_LE SECRET DU PRÉCEPTEUR._)
Translated from the French of VICTOR CHERBULIEZ.
One volume, crown 8vo., cloth, 6s.
_Daily Chronicle._
'M. Cherbuliez is to be congratulated on having found a translator who
has done justice to him, and to do justice to M. Cherbuliez is no mean
achievement, for he is one of the most artistic and delightful of modern
French novelists. He is also one of the few whose works may be safely
left lying about where the young person is prone to penetrate. In "The
Tutor's Secret" all his finest qualities are to be found.'
_Manchester Guardian._
'An admirable translation of a delightful novel. Those who have not read
it in French must hasten to read it in English.'
_Westminster Gazette_.
'If Victor Cherbuliez did not already possess a great reputation his
latest production would have been quite sufficient to secure him renown
as a novelist. From the first line to the last we recognise a master
hand at work, and there is not a page that even the veriest skimmer will
care to pass over.'
THE MYSTERY OF THE RUE SOLY.
From the French of H. DE BALZAC, by LADY KNUTSFORD.
One volume, 8vo., cloth, 3s. 6d.
_Spectator._
'To place a first-rate foreign novel in reach of those whose education
does not enable them to enjoy it in the original is to confer a real
boon upon them; and everyone who is not a French scholar has much cause
to be grateful to Lady Knutsford for the capital translation of Balzac's
renowned Ferragus.'
_Scotsman._
'Lady Knutsford's translation is excellent.'
_Speaker._
'Admirably translated.'
Transcriber's Note
Inconsistencies have been retained in spelling, hyphenation,
punctuation, and grammar, except where indicated in the list
below:
- Single quote added after "death." on Page 139
- "his" added after "on" on Page 157
- "s" changed to "is" on Page 214
- Single quote added before "Mr." on Page 214
- Period changed to comma after "SPINNER" on Page 216
- Single quote changed to double after "Ormisdal" on page 222
- Period changed to comma after "HUTCHINSON" on Page 223
- Period changed to comma after "COLLINGWOOD" on Page 223
- Single quote added after "over." on Page 224