It was a cloudless, warm day when Mr. Herriott crossed the bridge, and
walked up the road bordering a creek hidden by its vivid fringe of
willows. At the ruined mill he paused; here the sandy road ended. Beyond
on an upland towered a pine forest, its organ pipes whispering as the
south wind touched the tremolo; in front nestled the small, white house,
partly veiled by rose and yellow jasmine vines, and all the little
hollow was brimmed with cool, green shadows cast by trees across
clustering flower beds. A blended perfume distilled by dew from Herse's
crystal fingers hovered over the Dingle, the cold, unctuous odor of
tuberoses, the warm spice of carnations, and that clinging breath of wan
lilies that evokes white faces and folded fingers of the dead, but
stronger than all, the fragrance of wild grapes in creamy bloom. More
than cloistral quiet reigned; only the rippling monody of water feeling
its way over the crumbling dam to the far-off sea, and the tinkle of the
spring runnel sounding low, clear, elfish, as if some Malis or
"April-eyed Nycheia" smote her tambourine and set silver bells ringing.
Once from the green silken tent of willows a shy lark, hermit of dells,
thrilled the silence with his resonant, sylvan roulade, and a locust
under beech boughs answered, clashing his brazen sistrum.
The blinds and windows at the front of the cottage were open, and white
muslin curtains stirred now and then, as the breeze swayed them. Pots of
flowering geranium and heliotrope were grouped on the piazza, and among
them slept Delilah. As Mr. Herriott looked at the humble nest of a home,
and thought of stately Nutwood, of gilded ballrooms where Eglah had
reigned an acknowledged beauty, he began to realize the monotony, the
dreary loneliness of life here in the heart of almost primeval forests.
She had elected to shut herself far away from the brilliant circle of
former days, but he could not believe it was for his sake; grief for her
father had made her a recluse.
The dazzling possibility with which Mrs. Mitchell enticed him, he had
put aside as a delusion he could not indulge a second time, for behind
it was the biting mockery with which he had once grappled. His nominal
wife had led the life of a nun during his absence, but loyalty was far
removed from love, and the steps of an altar suited her nature better
than a husband's arms. For many hours he had fought the hope that would
smile out of the folds of his old jacket, but the intense longing to see
her again conquered reason, prudence, consistent adherence to the line
of action he had voluntarily prescribed for both. He would secrete
himself, and merely look once more at the face he had striven
ineffectually to forget, and she should never suspect his presence.
At a little distance was the gate of the low wire fence, but he stepped
across the wire, and passed through the open door of the dairy to a tall
tulip tree, around the body of which coiled the brown serpent of the
muscadine. Very near this tree, now all aglow with its orange-spotted
cups, stood--on the edge of a verbena bed--an ancient mimosa in full
bloom. Years before, an August gale had pollarded it, and lateral
branches drooped almost to the ground, except on one side, where they
were cut away to frame an arch, and this entrance showed a wooden bench
set against the trunk of the tree. To-day it resembled a huge Japanese
umbrella of olive-green lace thickly studded with pink silk aigrettes
that shook out waves of sweetness, mellow, fruity, languorous. Looking
around for the best coign of vantage, Mr. Herriott noticed the narrow
arbor covered by a thick growth of butter-bean vines, where he stood
secure from observation. On the ground, only five yards distant, lay a
woman's broad black straw hat tied basket-fashion with its ribbon
strings, and filled with spikes of tuberoses. By cautious pressure of
the bean vines he could see very distinctly the front of the house and
the mimosa seat.
With his head on his hand and a throbbing of his heart that defied
control, he waited, his eyes on the hat, he never knew how long, until a
sudden thrill shook him.
From an invisible corner of the garden, Eglah came slowly toward the
arbor. Her mourning gown of lustreless, thin black silk fitted perfectly
the curves of her finely moulded figure, and at her throat she had
fastened a spray of white star jasmine. High on her head the glossy,
gold-flecked chestnut hair was piled in soft loose coils and puffs that
caught the sunshine as she walked, holding in the clasp of one arm a
sheaf of long-stemmed lilies. Advancing until she reached the hat, she
leaned down, swung the knotted ribbons over her right wrist, and stood a
moment listening to the peaceful woodland message of the lark. Three
years had wrought a marvellous change. The rich promise of her youth had
expanded into an almost flawless loveliness. A certain girlish slimness
had given place to the fuller, rounded lines of graceful, perfect
womanhood, and over the pathetic, pale face had settled a passionless
repose that comes only when hope is dead, and silent pride sits on its
tombstone. As she held the lilies with her left arm, the hand gleamed
white against the folds of her black dress, and the wedding ring
flashed. Her cold, exquisite purity matched that of a Roman vestal on
her way to shrines, but her large brown eyes, looking far away, were so
darkened by shadows of mournful memory, of helpless yet uncomplaining
renunciation, that Mr. Herriott could not endure the sight. He threw his
hand across his face, and strangled the impulse to spring to her side,
to catch her in his arms. When he looked again, she had walked away
toward the house.
With a book in her hand, Mrs. Mitchell ran down the steps.
"I am waiting for the flowers, before I close the box for the little
bride. These lilies are just what she needs for the altar. Give them to
me."
Then a low, sweet, sad voice swept the heartstrings of the man who
watched and listened.
"Do not forget to send my present. I put my card inside the case. Dear
little Minna, I hope she may be happy. If her husband really loves her,
she enters her heaven; but if not, the poor little thing will soon wish
the burial instead of marriage service had been read over her to-night.
I trust the child may never find out that a tolling bell is sweeter than
a wedding peal. You found my Baedeker?"
"Yes, in the mill where you left it a week ago."
"I must look out one or two points in it, and the air is so deliciously
sweet I think I shall stay a while in the garden on this last Dingle
day, unless you need me to help you."
"There is nothing for you to do inside; everything is ready."
"Ma-Lila, you have been crying! What makes you so nervous? You are
trembling."
"Oh, I feel upset! Leaving Robert's lonely grave, and all."
The girl stooped, and kissed her cheek.
"It seems very selfish to ask you to leave a place so dear to you; but I
hope God will begin to pity me at last, and call me soon where I shall
trouble no one any more. Then----"
Mrs. Mitchell laid the lilies on her lips to close them.
"Hush, my baby--hush! I am screwed up now like a frazzled fiddle-string,
and if you give another twist I shall just go to pieces."
Taking the flower-laden hat, she placed it with the lilies on the step,
and turned toward the dairy.
Baedeker in hand, Eglah moved away, but as she neared the arbor she
looked back over her shoulder and called:
"Little mother, when Dorcas brings the clothes she kept to flute, please
call me. I ought to finish packing my trunk by one o'clock. Mr. Boynton
says the baggage should be at the station not later than five o'clock,
and you know we have to shake hands with all the plantation folks at
four. Where are you going?"
"Only to the spring house for the cream I promised Minna for
charlotte-russe. I set the jug there to cool."
"Let me bring it. You will wear yourself out."
"As if you knew morning's cream from that two days old! Go read your
book."
She sped toward the dairy like a running bird and though she did not
turn her head, the black eyes were busy. In the shelter of the spring
house she fell on her knees beside pans and bowls and with streaming
eyes prayed that after the battle perpetual peace might come.
Under the canopy of the mimosa Eglah passed, seated herself on the
bench, and opened the Baedeker. Through the lace meshes of the foliage
filtered sunshine, dappling her mourning gown with gold, quivering in
the waves of her hair, and after a while she pushed the book aside, laid
her head back against the trunk of the tree, and her long, silky lashes
touched her cheeks.
Mr. Herriott's glowing, hungry eyes watched every movement, noted the
outline of the full white throat, the listless drooping of the hands at
her side, the sad, proud curve of sensitive lips closed on ceaseless
pain that no complaint could adequately voice. He was unable to bear any
longer the look of patient hopelessness that each moment stabbed his
heart. At the thought that this was possibly his last sight of her, that
in obedience to his harsh dictates she was passing forever out of his
life, a wave of invincible protest surged over him, and before its
passionate fury pride, resolutions, his pledges of renunciation
vanished. The longing of many years seized, mastered him. In the sight
of God and man she was his. He would possess his own. With a quick,
noiseless stride he crossed the narrow space that separated them, and
entered the arch. His shadow was thrown forward, and she lifted her
eyes.
For an instant, a bewildered expression drifted over her countenance,
then her features settled into a marble mask. Her eyes shone suddenly
with a jewel gleam, as when a lamp flashes over the face of a gem; her
lids drooped, and she rose.
They stood only a few feet apart, a little belt of white verbena
fluttering flags of truce between them. His bronze face locked, his
eager grey eyes starred with the glint of battle probed hers for an
instant; she calmly defiant, colorless as the jasmine on her breast.
He held out his hand.
"Eglah!" His voice was a passionate appeal.
She interlaced and clasped her own fingers, her hands hanging in front
of her.
"Mr. Herriott, I am very glad you have reached home safely. I
congratulate you upon escaping the dangers of your Arctic journey."
"You are not surprised to see me in the United States?"
"Not at all. I happened to call at Calvary House recently, and
accidentally I saw and heard you talking in the cloister."
"You were so near, so near--yet gave me no intimation of your presence?"
"I have studied and learned thoroughly the lesson you selected and set
for me; you wished to avoid me. My schooling was effectual, and I was
glad to gratify you."
"When I landed I went first to Calvary House with a suffering human
wreck whom I promised----"
"Why trouble yourself to explain what concerns only you and your sick
friend? Your reasons I have neither the right to ask, nor any desire to
hear."
"At least you will permit me to thank you for all your gracious kindness
to Amos Lea. He tells me you saved his life, and thereby I am far more
your debtor than is the poor old man."
"Never my debtor. Amos and I understand each other, and I was glad to
help take care of him. You owe me absolutely nothing but the fulfilment
of your own unsolicited pledges."
"Why do you suppose I came here?"
"Why--indeed; when you pressed on my acceptance the promise that my
'future should be spared your shadow'? I presume you came from a
chivalric sense of imaginary duty, or possibly a courteous
semi-recognition of what you may have conjectured I might regard as my
legal claims. I have absolutely none of any kind, along any lines.
Having renounced and banished me, perhaps you wished to assure yourself
that the condemned is at least not needy in exile? By what right could
you expect me--disowned, rejected, scorned--to desire ever to see again
a man whom once I trusted, almost as I did my God? To whom I fled as
sole refuge from the infamy that threatened one supreme in my life, and
when like a frantic child I clung to him, believing he loved me, he
shook me off, as if a worm crawled on his hand. After the whirlwind
passed, after the black veil of death mercifully interposed and hid us
from ruin, I came to my senses--I realized the magnitude of my error. My
ideal world had crumbled, you alone survived the wreck; I honored you
for your loyalty to the innocent man in his grave, and God knows I have
rejoiced that you denied my prayer, that you refused to perjure
yourself, but--your cruel words sank deep. While I could not blame you,
my punishment has been as severe as I deserved, as keenly mortifying as
you intended and desired. In my helplessness and sorrow you have
humiliated me by every means at your command, made me a target for
derision and for slander. Three long, sad years, without a line. Yet you
found a way to write to your gardener."
"Yes, I knew Amos loved me. You did not."
"As you felt assured of that fact, I fail to understand why you have
come."
"Not from the chivalric motives you have done me the honor to impute to
me. I am no walking code of priggish courtesy; I am merely a man who
knows exactly what he wants most, and, missing that, deceives himself
with nothing less. I am here to-day solely to see, at least once more,
the face that has held my heart in bondage since you were a child. To
intrude upon you was not my purpose, and I did not intend to violate my
self-imposed limit of absolute silence, but I could not resist the
longing to look into your eyes, to hear your voice; and I thought I was
strong enough to watch you a little while, without your knowledge, and
go away forever, leaving you in peace. I might have known better. The
sight of you shivered my own compact. I have suffered far more than you,
and if my harshness wounded you beyond forgiveness, remember, oh,
remember, how long I have loved you!"
"I can remember only that your last spoken words were a vehement request
that I should forget you."
Her lower lip fluttered, and she caught it between her teeth.
"Yes, but if farewell utterances are inexorably binding, you must pardon
me if I remind you of yours. All through the gloom and bitterness of our
separation a sacred, sweet voice has sounded in my ears the precious
words of promise you whispered when your arms clasped my neck, and your
dear face lay on my heart: 'You will never be out of my life--my own Mr.
Noel.'"
A vivid rose stole into her cheeks, and she leaned farther back to
increase the space between them.
"I had not then received my text-book--had not learned the lesson
assigned. After that, you wrote your final mandate: 'My freedom was
complete,' and you urged me to use it in any way most 'conducive to the
happiness so unwisely imperilled' by my rash marriage. I shall endeavor
to follow your counsel, and if you had waited one day later, you would
have been spared this unpleasant duty-visit. I go away to-night, and
never again shall you be annoyed by even hearing of me. Mr. Herriott, in
spite of all your wrongs, at the last you trusted your name to my
keeping. I have indeed held it 'sacred as the Grail,' and now I return
it to you as stainless as when you gave it. I am leaving America to find
an obscure resting-place in a strange land where I shall be known only
by the name to which I was born; and, once across the ocean, I can
escape, perhaps, the social gibbet from which dangle, deservedly, 'women
with histories.' I have no need of your name, noble though it is, to
help me keep my oath to God. Divorce I hold a shameful blot on true
womanhood, a menace to domestic and national morality, an insult to the
Lord. Human law can no more annul my marriage than my baptismal vow;
neither was made to man; both stand on that divine record only death can
erase; they are locked among the sacraments of God, _'so long as ye both
shall live.'_ Your freedom is as unconditional as you may wish, and that
court of release which you commended to me, is equally open to you."
The pulse in her lovely throat throbbed violently, and watching her lift
one hand there with the old childish effort to loosen the stricture, his
lips tightened and he stepped closer.
"And if I decline to accept, to permit your renunciation of my name,
which is more sacred since you have worn it? To make a football of God's
statute is as little my purpose as is yours. Sometimes I have cheated
myself with the forlorn hope that absence might possibly help me to
accomplish that which long association failed to bring me. After years
of suffering, of sombre retrospection, I hope I have come back less a
Tartar than when we parted. Then I surrendered you entirely--absolutely.
I do so still. I claim no more rights or privileges than I possessed
before that marriage ceremony made you nominally mine; but if your great
pity for the lonely man who never loved any other woman can possibly
grow into a deeper feeling, will you try to forgive my harshness that
dreadful night? Knowing what you are to me, will you come to me?"
"Come to you who repudiated me! By what right dare you suppose,
expect----"
"I have no right even to hope, but my hungry heart dares, and will dare
desperate chances."
"You told me your confidence was dead as your love. The scar of that
brand can never heal."
"Yes, I said many bitter, cruel things in the hot rage of my
disappointment, that I should be glad to forget. In extenuation, you
must remember that you beckoned me unexpectedly to heaven, and when I
was thrust out the crash unhinged me. It was for your own sake I asked
you to put me out of your life; to save you from the horrible martyrdom
of unloving wifehood, from dragging through life the ball and chain of a
galling, intolerable tie. To put you out of mine I knew was as
impossible in future years as I had found it in the past. In my farewell
note I considered your peace of mind, not my own. If you could realize
all you are to me, perhaps you might understand better what that
voluntary surrender of your precious self cost me, when, by the law of
God and of man, you belonged to me."
She had avoided meeting his eyes; the strain set her lips to quivering,
increased the strangling grip on her throat, and unconsciously her
fingers clutched and wrung one another.
"After three years of dreary absence you have not even a friendly hand
to offer to the man who has carried you in his heart ever since you wore
muslin aprons--who holds you the one love of his life?"
"Mr. Herriott, you ceased to love me when you ceased to trust me, else
all these years----"
She paused, warned by the treacherous quiver in her voice. He stood
quite still, and after a moment opened his arms.
"My sweetheart, will you try me? Will you grant me the privilege of
convincing you?"
She shook her head. Something in his eyes dazzled her, and an alarming
pallor overspread her face, blanching her lips.
"If you have found happiness in forgetting and excluding me entirely
from your life and your future, I cannot complain that you followed my
counsel; but I will accept that positive assurance only from your own
truthful lips. Your peace of mind is more to me than my own. Have you
shut me out of your heart forever?"
She tried to move aside, to pass him, but he barred her escape with an
outstretched arm, and she shrank back.
"If you care no more for me now than when I left you, I have no
alternative but to live alone; and I will never again intrude, never
annoy you by the sight of my face. I will not accept compassion, or
friendly sympathy. All--or none. I want love--love that brings a pure
woman gladly to her husband's breast. Once you took some solemn vows for
me, invoking the presence of the Lord you worship. Now, trusting you
implicitly, knowing you will not deceive me, I must ask you to give me
one final pledge. If you cannot love me as I wish--if your heart, your
whole heart will never belong to me--then, calling God to witness the
truth of your words, look me straight in the eyes and tell me so."
She trembled, shut her eyes, and, as a rich red rushed into her white
cheeks, she covered her face with her hands.
A gust of wind shook the mimosa, and on her bowed head drifted the pink
silk filaments, powdering her brown coil and puffs.
Very gently Mr. Herriott took the trembling little hands, kissed the
palms, and, drawing her slowly, tenderly toward him, lifted her arms to
his neck, holding them there.
With a low, broken cry she surrendered.
"Mr. Noel, you have broken my heart."
He waited to steady his voice.
"My proud darling, there seemed no other way. When it heals, please God,
I shall have my throne inside."
With her face hidden on his shoulder, he held her close, his cheek
against her hair, and each knew how fiercely the heart of the other
throbbed. After some moments, he tightened the arm clasping her waist,
and his deep, passionately tender tone caressed like a velvet glove.
"I don't know how many years I have longed for the touch of your lips.
Even as a child you never allowed me to kiss you; and, except your
father, I am sure no man ever has. My sweetheart, if indeed you are
learning to love me, can you, will you give me now what I want--my own
wife's pure lips?"
She crimsoned to the tips of her small ears, and clung to him, not
daring to meet his eyes.
"One memorable night, when two of my dogs froze at my feet, I sat under
the lee of my sledge, waiting for a gale of sleet to howl itself to
rest. I fell asleep and had a heavenly dream, in which you came and
kissed me."
"Mr. Herriott, you cannot love me now as you did before that horrible
journey on the cars when your words seemed to scorch--brand me. I am
afraid--I am afraid----"
He felt her tremble.
"My darling, I love you infinitely more. You were never so sacred, so
dear as to-day. Of what can you feel afraid now? In my dream you were
more generous. I can take, but I prefer to receive the blessed seal I
hope you will give me, as holy assurance that you are entirely my own."
Shyly she turned her flushed face towards his, one hand, quivering like
a frightened bird, softly drew his brown cheek closer, and the proud,
beautiful, vestal lips nestled and clung to her husband's.
Sitting beside her on the bench, he said, as his brilliant, happy eyes
studied her face:
"Will you please tell me when you began really to care for me?"
"What can that matter now? Do not make me look back into shadows I wish
to forget. All our light shines ahead."
"I should like to fix the date of my coronation, that I may compute
accurately my despotic reign from the hour I entered into possession of
my kingdom. Tell me, sweetheart; why should you shrink?"
"Do you recall that last morning at home, when you came from the beach
followed by the dogs? Seeing me at the window, you took off your cap and
waved it. As I looked down at you then, something strange seemed
suddenly to stir and wake up and tremble in my heart. I did not
understand; it was a new feeling, and I was so wounded and tortured over
many things I could not analyze it; supposed it a part of my punishment.
I had seen you look better. Your boating suit and full evening dress
were certainly more becoming, but in some unaccountable, extraordinary
way that grey cap wave, and the peculiar expression I had never before
seen in your eyes, brought you closer to me than you had ever been. When
I sat alone in your smoking-room and saw the strapped trunks and your
fur overcoat--like a coffin and a pall--a terribly bitter wave rolled
over me at the thought of giving you up. I began to be jealous of Amos,
and I envied the dear old dogs the tender caress of your stroking hand.
At the last you coldly said good-bye; but when you caught, strained me
against you, I found out what it all meant. I knew then that woman's
heritage of sorrow was mine, and that my heart followed you into Polar
night. The ache that began that day at Greyledge grew and tortured me
until--I felt your arms around me once more."
He lifted her left hand and kissed it, pressing the ring against his
face.
"Why did not you tell me? I should have been spared so much brutal
bitterness of feeling."
"It was impossible after all the harsh, cruel things you had deemed it
your duty to say to me, and you would have scouted such a sudden change
of feeling as inconceivable, as absurd. The strangeness of the
revelation overwhelmed, frightened me; I was more astonished than you
would have been. Tell you? Mr. Noel, I would sooner have gone to the
stake."
"Your silence tied me to one. Men are perverse devils. I hated the sight
of this wedding ring; I longed to melt it in a crucible in my
laboratory. You will never understand the storm that raged within me
that day on the train when you hummed Kuecken and laid the baby on your
breast. Every time you lifted your hand and patted the poor little
creature, that gold band danced and flashed in my eyes like a mocking
imp. But your ring had its innings. After a year my temper cooled. Day
and night I found myself drifting back more hopelessly to you; and
always before me your little white hand flashed that circle--signet of
my ownership--because you had clung to it and declared 'it was the badge
of your loyalty.' I saw it in the blue gulfs of icebergs, in the
wonderful orange radiance of auroral arches, in the glare of low, tired
suns that could not set, in the unearthly lustre of moons holding vigil
over a silent desert wrapped in its shroud of ice, and in the ghostly
phosphorescence of snow-mantled glaciers. Always, everywhere, that dear
ringed hand beckoned like a beacon. I knew you did not love me; I was
grimly sure you never would; but the assurance that no other man could
ever claim lips denied to me, that you would proudly hold and keep your
precious self sacred to one whose name you bore, comforted me."
He took her face in his palms, bending close his handsome head, and a
mist dimmed the sparkle in his magnetic eyes.
"My darling, the coldest night I ever spent, when lost on the 'Great
Ice,' where a snow-storm obliterated sledge tracks and death seemed
inevitable, the remembered touch of your dear arms clinging around my
neck, the pressure of your face on my breast, thrilled my heart, fired
my blood, and warmed my freezing body. I missed the Pole; I nearly lost
my life; but, ah, thank God, better than either, more precious than all,
I have found at last, and I own the pure heart of my wife."
POPULAR NOVELS
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON.
INEZ
BEULAH
MACARIA
ST. ELMO
VASHTI
INFELICE
AT THE MERCY OF TIBERIUS
A SPECKLED BIRD
"Who has not read with rare delight the novels of Augusta Evans? Her
strange, wonderful and fascinating style; the profound depths to which
she sinks the probe into human nature, touching its most sacred chords
and springs; the intense interest thrown around her characters, and the
very marked peculiarities of her principal figures, conspire to give an
unusual interest to the works of this eminent Southern authoress."
ECCENTRICITIES OF GENIUS
By Major J. B. Pond.
READ WHAT IS SAID OF IT.
"It is distinctly one of the most interesting books of the year from any
point of view."--_Rochester Sunday Herald._
"It is many a day since I have read so fascinating a book of
reminiscences. Many a day--or perhaps I should have said a 'night'--for
this volume has given me delight during hours, when, according to the
laws of nature, I should have been asleep."--_Newell Dwight Hillis._
"One of the most simple, naive and straightforward books ever written.
It fairly reeks with personality.... No man living has had such
interesting association with so many interesting people."--_Home
Journal._
"Adorned by many pictures, never before published."--_Detroit Journal._
"Possesses unparalleled attractions."--_Boston Journal._
"Major Pond goes deep into his subject, furnishing pen-portraits that
are admirably clear and graphic."--_The Mail and Express._
"The whole book, stuffed as it is with anecdotes and extracts from
personal letters, is marvelously interesting."--_Boston Transcript._
"All the world loves a teller of stories, and readers will surely
take approvingly to the man who gives them so much of entertaining
reading as is found in Major Pond's 600 pages of bright personal
description."--_N.Y. Times._
"Shining by reflected light, its pages literally teem with interesting
anecdotes of many sorts."--_Chicago Evening Post._
"Originality stamps the volume, copiously illustrated with
portraits."--_The Boston Globe._
"It has a thousand charms, and a thousand points of interest. It is full
of striking gems of thought, rare descriptions of men and places;
biographical bits that delight one by their variety, and the distinction
of those alluded to. From a literary view it is as interesting as
Disraeli's famous "Curiosities of Literature."--_Philadelphia Item._
"If any more charming and interesting book has appeared this season, it
has not come to our notice. The get-up is worthy of the matter of the
book."--_Philadelphia Evening Telegraph._
THE VOYAGE OF ITHOBAL
BY SIR EDWIN ARNOLD
Ithobal was the first African explorer we know about. He was a sea
captain of Tyre, who rescued and married an African Princess, and then
induced the King of Egypt to put him in charge of a voyage of
exploration of the wonderful land of his wife's birth.
After a voyage of fifteen thousand miles around Africa, he returns after
numerous and exciting adventures, which bring out almost every feature
of African life and scenery. Ithobal relates the story of his enterprise
in a discourse of seven days before the throne of Pharaoh, who crowns
him with honors.
SIR HENRY M. STANLEY, in a letter to the author, says of
it:--"You have added greatly to the happiness of many of your
race by the production of so unique a poem, so rich in the
beauties of the sweet English language."
Other able critics who have read the blind poet's new epic poem unite in
calling it even better than the old favorite, "The Light of Asia."
EQUAL PARTNERS.
By Howard Fielding.
"This is a thoroughly enjoyable detective story, written in good, crisp
style, and with a decided surprise in the last pages. It is adroitly
contrived that almost every character in the book shall be suspected of
the crime of attempted murder before the actual culprit is discovered.
The characters are excellently differentiated, and the story is vastly
diverting, nor are there any repulsive features about the book. It is a
stirring tale and will enliven a dull evening successfully."--_Chicago
Tribune_.
DORIS KINGSLEY, Child and Colonist.
By EMMA RAYNER, author of "Free to Serve," "In Castle and Colony," etc.
This story of the South in the first half of the eighteenth century,
opens with one of the strangest episodes in the early history of South
Carolina--the pursuit and capture by the Governor of Carolina of a
pirate vessel, full, not of treasure, but of English men and women; and
the selling of those same unfortunate voyagers as bond servants in the
colony. Doris Kingsley, a child stolen from the streets of London, is
the youngest of the party, and is the heroine of the story. Doris
Kingsley is a novel of absorbing interest, dramatic and historically
true.
OLD JED PROUTY (A Narrative of the Penobscot).
By RICHARD GOLDEN and MARY C. FRANCIS.
In "Old Jed Prouty" the reading public is presented with a New England
character story of unusual interest and merit. The plot, although not an
involved one, hides enough mystery to lend the spice of the unknown to
the reader's zest, and the simple and natural denouement emphasizes the
high moral ethics of the story, and throws into strong relief the deep
human sentiments that dominate the tale. Standing out above all,
infusing into the fiber of every chapter the rugged sincerity, the
homely wit and the quaint philosophy of New England, is the central
character about which the pivot of the story turns, "Old Jed Prouty,"
real in name and real in goodness, who at the time of his life, some
thirty years since, was a landmark in the Valley of the Penobscot.
JOHN WINSLOW.
By HENRY D. NORTHROP.
"'John Winslow' is one of those inviting books of country life of which
the best part of 'Eben Holden' has come to be the accepted type. Plenty
of shrewd common sense in the chief character, a dash of love on the
side, an incidental and inevitable bit of human wickedness--but
everything in the picture and the framing attractive. This is a book for
a wide reach among readers."--_N. Y. World._
"Properly ranks with 'Eben Holden,' 'David Harum,' and 'Quincy Adams
Sawyer.' The four may be put in a class by themselves as distinctive
types of homespun Americans."--_The North American._
"Worthy to live with 'David Harum' and 'Eben Holden.'"--_Publishers'
Weekly_.
UNDER A LUCKY STAR, a New Book on Astrology.
By CHARLOTTE ABELL WALKER.
Tells what occupation to adopt, and what line of life to follow, what
associates and partners to choose, how to recognize the possibilities
and limitations of our friends and ourselves, and of other important
matters to human life, including suggestions on marriage, being mainly
culled from the minds of ancient and modern philosophers. Illustrated,
cloth bound.
THE WAY OF A MAN WITH A MAID.
By FRANCES GORDON FANE.
A clever, well-written story, full of love and pathos, and thrilling
with dramatic crises. Each step of the domestic tragedy is skilfully
portrayed, until the final climax is reached.
"Its author has made it a powerful, telling story to read."--_N.Y.
World_.
THE CROSSROADS OF DESTINY, a Story of Chivalry in the Fifteenth Century.
By JOHN P. RITTER. Author of "The Man Who Dared."
This is a wonderfully interesting story, and will find a welcome with
all who love to read of deeds of chivalry.
"It is a clean, clear and clever story of chivalry at its best, and will
find a great many well-pleased readers."--_New York World_. Cloth bound,
illustrated.
A MASTER OF FORTUNE, being Further Adventures of "Captain Kettle."
By CUTCLIFFE HYNE.
"It has the dash and tinge of reality that makes you feel as if you were
in the midst of it all."--_Detroit Free Press._
"The many readers who followed with bated breath the wild adventures of
Captain Kettle in the book named for him, will welcome Cutcliffe Hyne's
new collection of tales dealing with that remarkable sea dog. The volume
is well called 'A Master of Fortune.'"--_Philadelphia Press._
"Nobody who has followed the gallant sailor--diminutive, but oh, my!--in
his previous adventures around the earth, is going to miss this red-hot
volume of marvelous exploits."--_N. Y. World._
THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN KETTLE.
By CUTCLIFFE HYNE.
The best sea story since the days of Marryat. Captain Kettle is a
devil-may-care sea dog, half pirate and half preacher. The author
carries him through many hairbreadth escapes and makes him a character
that will live long in the annals of fiction. The success of this book
is marvelous.
THE MULLIGANS. A Novel.
By EDWARD HARRIGAN.
The _New York World_ says: "Mr. Harrigan gave to his Mulligan dramas the
most distinctly typical character plays which have ever been seen on the
native stage. They were studied and displayed straight from the life of
New York and their popularity was unbounded. His book is one of the most
generally interesting of the new season's output."
_It is a marvelously entertaining novel, possessing a keenness of wit
and humor unsurpassed by any recent work. All the characters stand out,
as true to life, as natural and as vivid as if portrayed by Dickens._
NORMAN HOLT, a Story of the Army of the Cumberland.
By GENERAL (Capt.) CHARLES KING.
"No more charming historic war story has ever been written. It is
Captain King's best, and bearing, as it does, on the great battle of
Mission Ridge, although the story is woven in fiction, it adds an
invaluable record of that gigantic contest between the two great
armies."
"The characters are real, their emotions natural, and the romance that
is interwoven is delightful. It is wholesome and one of General King's
best, if not his best book."--_N. Y. Journal._
"From the first chapter to the last page the interest of the reader
never fags. General King has written no more brilliant or stirring novel
than 'Norman Holt.'"--_N. Y. Press._
JOHN HENRY, (25th Thousand.)
By HUGH MCHUGH.
"'John Henry' has just 'butted' its way in between the literary bars and
capered over the book counters to the tune of twelve thousand copies
before its publishers could recover their breath.
"Every page is as catchy as a bar from a popular song.
"The slang is as correct, original and smart as the newest handshake
from London.
"In the lottery of humorous books 'John Henry' seems to approximate the
capital prize."--_N. Y. Journal._
"All who have laughed over 'Billy Baxter' will heartily enjoy this
book."--_The Bookseller, Newsdealer and Stationer_.
THE KING OF HONEY ISLAND, (45th Thousand.)
By MAURICE THOMPSON, author of "Alice of Old Vincennes," etc.
"'The King of Honey Island' bears quite as many marks of the genius of
the author as does 'Alice of Old Vincennes,' with the additional charm,
perhaps of more buoyancy and beauty of thought and expression. In
'Alice' Mr. Thompson plumed himself as a master word painter. In 'The
King of Honey Island' he developed into a veritable American Ouida, for
his descriptive powers are marvelous. Like the true artist that he was,
he paints Nature as it looks, not as it is, so that the reader, in
glimpsing the battle of New Orleans, hears, almost, the cannon's
roar."--_The Topeka Capital._