1
When Miriam sat talking everything over with the Pernes at supper, on
the first night of the term, detached for ever from the things that
engrossed them, the school-work, Julia Doyle’s future, the peculiarities
of the visiting teachers, the problem of the “unnatural infatuation” of
two of the boarders with each other, the pros and cons of a
revolutionary plan for taking the girls in parties to the principal
London museums, she made the most of her triumphant assertion that she
had absolutely nothing in view. She found herself decorously waiting,
armed at all points, through the silent interval while the Pernes took
in the facts of her adventurous renunciation. She knew at once that she
would have to be desperately determined.... But after all they could not
do anything with her.
Sitting there, in the Perne boat, still taking an oar and determined to
fling herself into the sea ... she ought not to have told them she was
leaving them just desperately, without anything else in prospect;
because they were so good, not like employers. They would all feel for
her. It was just like speaking roughly at home. Well, it was done. She
glanced about. Miss Haddie, across the table behind her habitual bowl of
bread and milk had a face--the face of a child surprised by injustice.
‘I was right--I was right,’ Miriam gasped to herself as the light flowed
in. ‘I’m escaping--just in time.... Emotional tyranny.... What a good
expression ... that’s the secret of Miss Haddie. It was awful. She’s
lost me. I’m free. Emotional tyranny.’ ... ‘My hat, Mirry, you’re beyond
me. How much do you charge for that one. Say it again,’ she seemed to
hear Gerald’s friendly voice. Go away Gerald. True. True. All the truth
and meaning of her friendship with Miss Haddie in one single flash. How
_fearfully_ interesting life was. Miss Haddie wrestling with her,
fighting for her soul; praying for her, almost driving her to the early
service and always ready to quiver over her afterwards and to ask her if
she had been happy.... And now angry because she was escaping.
She appealed to Miss Deborah and met a flash of her beautiful soft
piercing eyes. Her delicate features quivered and wrinkled almost to a
smile. But Miss Deborah was afraid of Miss Jenny who was already
thinking and embarking on little sounds. Miriam got away for a moment in
a tumult, with Miss Deborah. ‘Oh,’ she shouted to her in the depths of
her heart, ‘you are heavenly young. You _know_. Life’s like Robinson
Crusoe. Your god’s a great big Robinson Crusoe. You know that anything
may happen any minute. And it’s all right.’ She laughed and shook
staring at the salt-cellar and then across at Miss Haddie whose eyes
were full of dark fear. Miss Haddie was alone and outraged. ‘She thinks
I’m a fraud besides being vulgar ... life goes on and she’ll wonder and
wonder about me puzzled and alone.’ ... She smiled at her her broadest,
happiest, home smile, one she had never yet reached at Banbury Park.
Flushing scarlet Miss Haddie smiled in return.
“Eh--my dear girl,” Miss Jenny was saying diffidently at her side,
“isn’t it a little unwise--very unwise--under the circumstances--with
the difficulties--well, in fact with all ye’ve just told us--have ye
thought?” When Miriam reached her broad smile Miss Jenny stopped and
suddenly chuckled. “My _dear_ Miriam! I don’t know. I suppose we don’t
know ye. I suppose we haven’t really known ye as ye are. But come, have
ye thought it out? No, ye haven’t,” she ended gravely, looking along the
table and flicking with her forefinger the end of her little red nose.
Miriam glanced at her profile and her insecure disorderly bunch of hair.
Miss Jenny was formidable. She would recommend certificates. Her eye
wavered towards Miss Deborah.
“My dear Jenny,” said Miss Deborah promptly, “Miriam is not a child. She
must do as she thinks best.”
“But don’t ye see my point, my dear Deborah? I don’t say she’s a child.
She’s a madcap. That’s it.” She paused. “Of course I daresay she’ll fall
on her feet. Ye’re a most extraordinary gel. I don’t know. Of course ye
can come _back_--or stay here in yer holidays. Ye know _that_, my dear,”
she concluded, suddenly softening her sharp little voice.
“I don’t _want_ to go,” cried Miriam with tear-filled eyes. They were
one person in the grip of a decision. Miss Haddie sat up and moved her
elbows about. All four pairs of eyes held tears.
“My dear--I wish we could give ye more, Miriam,” murmured Miss Jenny;
“we don’t want to lose ye, ye’ve pulled the lower school together in a
remarkable way”; Miss Deborah was drawing little breaths of protest at
this descent into gross detail; “the children are interested. We hear
that from the parents. We shall be able to give ye excellent
testimonials.”
“Oh, I don’t care about that,” responded Miriam desperately.
‘Fancy--Great Scott--parents--behind all my sore throats--I’ve never
heard about that. It’s all coming out now,’ she thought.
“Well--my dear--now----” began Miss Jenny hesitatingly. Feeling herself
slipping, Miriam clung harshly to her determination and drew herself up
to offer the set of the pretty blouse Gerald and Harriett had bought her
in Brighton as a seal on her irrevocable decision to break with Banbury
Park. It was a delicate sheeny green silk, with soft tuckers.
“What steps have ye taken?” asked Miss Jenny in a quizzical
business-like tone.
“It’s very kind of you,” said Miriam formally, and went on to hint
vaguely and convincingly at the existence of some place in a family in
the country that would be sure to fall to her lot through the many
friends to whom Eve had written on her behalf, turning away from the
feast towards the freedom of the untenanted part of the room. The
sitting had to be brought to an end.... In a moment she would be utterly
routed.... Her lame statements were the end of the struggle. She knew
she was demonstrating in her feeble broken tones a sort of blind
strength they knew nothing of and that they would leave it at that,
whatever they thought, if only there were no more talk.
2
When they had left the room and Flora came in for the supper things,
instead of sitting as usual at the far end of the table pretending to
read, she stood planted on the hearthrug watching her. Flora’s hands
were small and pale and serenely despairing like her face. She cleared
the table quietly. She had nothing to hope for. She did not know she had
nothing to hope for. Whatever happened she would go quietly on doing
things ... in the twilight ... on a sort of edge. People would die.
Perhaps people had already died in her family. But she would always be
the same. One day she would die, perhaps of something hard and slow and
painful with that small yellowish constitution.
She would not be able to go on looking serene and despairing with people
round her bed helping her. When she died she would wait quietly with
nothing to do, blind and wondering. Death would take her into a great
festival--things for her for herself. She would not believe it and would
put up her hands to keep it off. But it would be all round her in great
laughter, like the deep roaring and crying of a flood. Then she would
cry like a child.
Why was it that for some people, for herself, life could be happy now.
It was possible now to hear things laugh just by setting your teeth and
doing things; breaking into things, chucking things about, refusing to
be held. It made even the dreadful past seem wonderful. All the days
here, the awful days, each one awful and hateful and painful.
Flora had gathered up her tray and disappeared, quietly closing the
door. But Flora had known and somehow shared her triumph, felt her
position in the school as she stood planted and happy in the middle of
the Pernes’ hearthrug.
3
“An island is a piece of land entirely surrounded by water.”
Miriam kept automatically repeating these words to herself as the newly
returned children clung about her the next morning in the schoolroom. It
was a morning of heavy wind and rain and the schoolroom was dark, and
chilly with its summer-screened fireplace. The children seemed to her
for the first time small and pathetic. She was deserting them. After
fifteen months of strange intimacy she was going away for ever.
During the usual routine days the little girls always seemed large and
formidable. She was quite sure they were not so to the other teachers,
and she hesitated when she thought over this difference, between the
explanation which accounted for their size and redoubtableness by her
own feebleness and the one to which she inclined when she felt her
success as a teacher.
She had discovered that the best plan was to stand side by side with the
children in face of the things they had to learn, treating them as
equals and fellow-adventurers, giving explanations when these were
necessary, as if they were obvious and might have been discovered by the
children themselves, never as if they were possessions of her own, to be
imparted, never claiming a knowledge superior to their own. ‘The
business of the teacher is to make the children independent, to get them
to think for themselves, and that’s much more important than whether
they get to know facts,’ she would say irrelevantly to the Pernes
whenever the question of teaching came up. She bitterly resented their
vision of children as malleable subordinates. And there were many
moments when she seemed to be silently exchanging this determination of
hers with her pupils. Good or bad, she knew it was the secret of her
influence with them, and so long as she was faithful to it both she and
they enjoyed their hours together. Very often she was tired, feeble with
fatigue and scamping all opportunities; this too they understood and
never took advantage of her. One or two of them would even when she
failed try to keep things going on her own method. All this was sheer
happiness to her, the bread and wine of her days.
But now and again, perhaps during the mid-morning recess, this
impersonal relationship gave way and the children clung fawning all
round her, passionately competing for nearness, touching and clinging
and snatching for kisses. There was no thought or uprightness or
laughter then, their hands were quick and eloquent and their eyes wide
and deeply smiling with those strange women’s smiles. Sometimes she
could respond in kind, answering to their smiles and caresses, making
gentle foolish sounds and feeling their passion rise to a frenzy of
adoration. The little deprecating consoling sounds that they made as
they clung told her that if she chose steadily to remain always gentle
and deprecating and consoling and reproachful she could dominate them as
persons and extort in the long run a complete personal obedience to
herself, so that they would do their work for her sake and live by and
through her, adoring her--as a goddess--and hating her. Even as they
fawned she knew they were fighting between their aching desire for a
perfection of tenderness in her and their fear lest she should fulfil
the desire. She was always tempted for an instant to yield and fling
herself irrevocably into the abyss, letting the children go on one by
one into the upper school, carrying as her gift only a passionate memory
such as she herself had for one of her nursemaids; leaving her
downstairs with an endless succession of new loves, different, but
always the same. She would become like a kind of nun, making a bare
subsistence, but so beloved always, so quivering and tender and
responsive that human love would never fail her, and when strength
failed there would be hands held out to shelter her decline. But the
vision never held her for more than a moment. There was something in the
thought of such pure personal sentiment that gave her a feeling of
treachery towards the children. Mentally she flung them out and off,
made them stand upright and estranged. She could not give them personal
love. She did not want to; nor to be entangled with them. They were
going to grow up into North London women, most of them loudly scorning
everything that was not materially profitable; these would remember her
with pity--amusement. A few would escape. These would remember her at
strange moments that were coming for them, moments when they would
recognise the beauty of things like ‘the Psalm of Life’ that she had
induced them to memorise without understanding it.
This morning a sense of their softness and helplessness went to her
heart. She had taught them so little. But she had forced them to be
impersonal. Almost savagely she had done that. She had never taken them
by a trick....
4
And now they were going to be Julia’s children.
Julia would teach them--alone there in the room with them, filling the
room for them--in her own way....
There would be no more talk about general ideas....
She would have to keep on the “object” lessons, because the Pernes had
been so pleased with the idea and the children had liked them. There
would still be those moments, with balls for the solar system and a
candle for the sun, and the blinds down. But there would not be anything
like that instant when all the eyes round the table did nothing but
watch the movement of a shadow on a ball ... the relief afterwards, the
happiness and the moment of intense love in the room--never to be
forgotten, all of them knowing each other, all their differences gone
away, even the clever watchful eyes of the cheating little Jewess, real
and unconscious for a moment. Julia would be watching the children as
much as the shadow, and the children would never quite forget Julia. She
would get to know a great deal about the children, but there would be no
reverence for big cold outside things. She would teach them to be kind.
“Little dorlings.” She thought all children were darlings and talked to
them all in her wheedling, coaxing, adoring way. If one or two were not,
it was the fault of the way they were treated, something in the
‘English’ way of dealing with them. Nearly all the elder girls she
disapproved of, they were no longer children--they were English. She was
full of contempt and indignant laughter for them, and of pity for the
‘wee things’ who were growing up. Yet she got on with them all and had
the secret of managing them without letting them see her feelings.
There _was_ something specially bad in the English way of bringing up
children. Not the ‘education’ exactly, but something else, something in
the way they were treated. Something in the way they were brought up
made English women so awful--with their smiles. Julia did not smile or
smirk. She laughed a great deal, often to tears. And she would often
suddenly beam. It was like a light coming from under her thick white
skin. Was Julia the answer to the awfulness of Englishwomen? If, as
Julia said, the children were all right and only the girls and grown-ups
awful, it must be something in the way the children were treated.
5
Yet Julia was not impersonal.
Miss Deborah, ... teaching the whole school to be ‘good’ in the
Fairchild way; with her beautiful quivering nodding black head held
high--blinking, and not looking at the girls separately--in a grave
voice, full of Scripture history, but broken all the time, quivering
with laughter and shoutings which she never uttered ... hilarious, ...
she taught a system of things she had been brought up in. But all the
same, she rushed along sweeping the girls with her ... and the girls
believed her. If I taught her system I should have false lips and the
girls would not believe me. If ever anyone had the courage to tell her
of any dreadful thing, she would weep it all away; and the person would
begin all over again certainly, as much as possible in the Fairchild way
... again and again until they died. Supposing a murderer came and sat
down in the hall? Supposing Miss Deborah had been brought up as a
Thug--killing people from behind?...
Miss Jenny, exasperatedly trying to wake all the girls up to the
importance of public life, sitting round in their blouses and skirts,
half-amused and sometimes trying to argue, because the tone of Miss
Jenny’s voice made them sorry for the other side. Politics, politics,
reading history and the newspapers, the importance of history if you
wanted to have any understanding of your own times. To come into the
room to take the class after Miss Jenny always meant finding her stating
and protesting and tapping the end of her nose, and the air hot and
excited, and the girls in some sort of state of excitement which could
only be got over by being very quiet and pretending not to notice them
except to be very surprised if there were any disturbance.
Miss Haddie, in horror of their badness, teaching them to master little
set tasks because it was shocking to be an idler; loving the sinner but
hating the sin much more, with a sort of horror like a girl, a horror in
her eyes that was the same as the horror of insects, fearing God who was
so close in the room, gloomily, all the time--wanting to teach them all
to fawn on Christ. Christ would make everything all right if you made up
to him. “Faint not nor fear, his arms are near. He faileth not and thou
art dear.” Awful....
And then Julia, making the children love her, herself, as a person. They
would all love her in time. Even Burra after her first grief would fling
herself upon Julia.... Gertie would not though, ever. Cold, quiet little
Gertie, the doctor’s daughter. She would make no response however much
she were kissed and called a little darling. Gertie even as a child was
the English thing that Julia disliked. Julia, with all her success was
not the answer to the problem of why Englishwomen were abominable. She
left out so much. “Julia, you know, I think things are more important
than people. Much more. People, if you let them for one single instant,
grin and pounce upon you and try to make you forget things. But they’re
there all the time and you have to go back to them,” and Julia laughing
suddenly aloud, “Ah--you’re a duck--a tonic.” And everyone was a little
afraid of Julia, the children, the boarders whom she managed so
high-handedly with her laughter, even the Pernes.
6
Perhaps Julia’s ‘personal’ way and the English ‘personal’ way were
somehow both wrong and horrid ... girls’ schools were horrid, bound to
be horrid, sly, mean, somehow tricky and poisonous. It was a hopeless
problem. The English sentimental way was wrong, the way of Englishwomen
with children--it made them grow up with those treacherous smiles.
The scientific and ‘æsthetic’ way, the way of the Putney school--ah,
blessed escape!... But it left nearly all the girls untouched.
Julia’s sentimental way was better than the English sentimental way; its
smiles had tears and laughter too, they were not so hypocritical. But it
was wrong. It was the strongest thing though in the Wordsworth House
school.
7
Julia was not happy. She dreamed fearful dreams.... Why did she speak of
them as if they were something that no one in this English world into
which she had come would understand? She had her strange nights all to
herself there across the landing; either lying awake or sleeping and
moaning all the time. The girls in her room slept like rocks and did not
know that she moaned. They knew she had nightmares and sometimes cried
out and woke them. But passing the open door late at night one could
hear her moaning softly on every breath with closed lips. That was
Julia, her life, all laid bare, moaning.... She knows she is alive and
that there is no escape from being alive. But it has never made her feel
breathless with joy. She laughs all day, at everybody and everything,
and at night when she is naked and alone she moans; moan, moan, moan,
heart-broken; wind and rain alone in the dark in a great open space.
She sometimes hinted at things, those real unknown things that were her
own life unshared by anybody; in a low soft terrible broken voice, with
eyes dilated and quivering lips; quite suddenly, with hardly any words.
And she would speak passionately about the sea, how she hated it and
could not look at it or listen to it; and of woods, the horror of woods,
the trees and the shadowiness, making her crisp her hands--ah yes, _les
mains crispées_, that was the word; and she had laughed when it was
explained to her.
It was not that she had troubles at home. Those things she seemed to
find odd and amusing, like a story of the life of some other
person--poverty and one of her sisters ‘very peculiar,’ another engaged
to a scamp and another going to be a shop-assistant, and two more,
‘doties’ very young, being brought up in the country with an aunt.
Everything that happened to people and all the things people did seemed
to her funny and amusing, “tickled her to death.” Harriett’s engagement
amused her really, though she pretended to be immensely interested and
asked numbers of questions in a rich deep awe-struck voice ...
blarney.... But she wanted to hear everything, and she never forgot
anything she was told. And she had been splendid about the
operation--really anxious, quite conscious and awake across the landing
that awful night and really making you feel she was glad afterwards.
“Poor Mrs. Henderson--I was never so glad in my life”--and always
seeming to know her without having her explained. She was real there,
and so strange in telling the Pernes about it and making it all easy.
8
Miriam leaned upon Julia more and more as the term went on, hating and
fearing her for her secret sorrow and wondering and wondering why she
appeared to have such a curious admiration and respect for herself. She
could understand her adoration for the Pernes; she saw them as they were
and had a phrase which partly explained them, “no more knowledge of the
world than babes”--but what was it in herself that Julia seemed so
fiercely and shyly to admire?
She knew she could not let Julia know how she enjoyed washing her hands,
in several soapings, in the cold water, before dinner. They would go
their favourite midday walk, down the long avenue in the park through
the little windings of the shrubbery and into the chrysanthemum show,
strolling about in the large green-house, all the girls glad of the
escape from a set walk, reading over every day the strange names on the
little wooden stakes, jokes and gigglings and tiresomenesses all kept
within bounds by the happiness that there was, inside the great quiet
steamy glass-house, in the strange raw bitter scent of the great
flowers, in the strange huge way they stood, and with all their
differences of shape and colour staring quietly at you, all in the same
way with one expression. They were startling, amongst their grey leaves;
and they looked startled and held their heads as if they knew they were
beautiful. The girls always hurried to get to the chrysanthemums and
came away all of them walking in twos relieved and happy back through
the cold park to dinner. But Julia, who loved the flowers, though she
made fun of their names in certain moods and dropped them _sotto voce_
into the general conversation at the dinner-table would have, Miriam
felt sure, scorned her own feeling of satisfaction in the great
hand-washing and the good dinner. And she detested pease pudding with
the meat, and boiled suet pudding with treacle.
9
She ate scarcely anything herself, keeping her attention free and always
seeming to be waiting for someone to say something that was never said.
Her broad-shouldered, curiously buoyant, heavy, lounging, ill-clad form,
her thick white skin, her eyes like a grey-blue sea, her dark masses of
fine hair had long been for Miriam the deepest nook in the meal-time
gatherings--she rested there unafraid of anything the boarders might say
or do. She would never be implicated. Julia would take care of that,
heading everything off and melting up the difficulties into some
absurdity that would set all the Pernes talking. Julia lounged easily
there, controlling the atmosphere of the table. And the Pernes knew it
unconsciously, they must know it; any English person would know it ...
though they talked about her untidiness and lack of purpose and
application. Julia was a deep, deep nook, full of thorns.
10
Julia had spoiled the news of Sarah’s engagement to Bennett Brodie. It
had been such a wonderful moment. The thick envelope coming at midday in
Bennett’s hand-writing--such a surprise--asking Miss Perne’s permission
to read it at the dinner-table--reading the startling sentences in the
firm curved hand--‘assert my privilege as your prospective
brother-in-law by announcing that I’m on the track of a job that I think
will suit you down to the ground,’ the curious splash, gravy on the
cloth as somebody put the great dish on the table, far-away vexation and
funny familiar far-away discomfort all round the table, ‘no more of this
until I’ve got full particulars on the tapis; but it may, oh Grecian
Mariamne, not be without interest to you to hear that that sister of
yours does not appear to be altogether averse to taking over the
management of the new house and the new practice and the new
practitioner, and that the new practitioner is hereby made anew in a
sense that is more of an amazement to him than it doubtless will be to
your intuitive personality. That life had such happiness in store for
him is not the least of the many surprises that have come his way. He
can only hope to prove not unworthy; and so a hearty au revoir from
yours affectionately.’ ... Then Bennett would always be there amongst
the home things ... with his strange way of putting things; he would
give advice and make suggestions ... and Sarah’s letter ... a glance at
it showing short sentences, things spoken in a low awe-struck voice....
‘We had been to an entertainment together.... Coming home along the
avenue. I was so surprised. He was so quiet and serious and humble.’ ...
All the practical things gone away in a moment, leaving only a sound of
deep music, ... mornings and evenings. Sarah alone now, at last, a
person, with mornings and evenings and her own reality in everything. No
one could touch her or interfere any more. She was standing aside,
herself. She would always be Sarah, someone called Sarah. She need never
worry any more, but go on doing things.... And then looking up and
finding all the table eagerly watching and saying suddenly to Miss Perne
‘another of my sisters is engaged’ and everybody, even Trixie and
Beadie, excited and interested.
11
The news, the great great news, wonderful Sarah away somewhere in the
background with her miracle--telling it out to the table of women was a
sort of public announcement that life was moving out on to wider levels.
They all knew it, pinned there; and how dear and glad they were, for a
moment, making it real, acknowledging by their looks how wonderful it
was. Sarah, floating above them all, caught up out of the darkness of
everyday life.... And then Julia’s eyes--veiled for a moment while she
politely stirred and curved her lips to a smile--cutting through it all,
seeming to say that nothing was really touched or changed. But when the
table had turned to jealousy and resentment and it was time to pretend
to hide the shaft of light and cease to listen to the music, Julia, cool
and steady, covered everything up and made conversation.
12
And the thought of Julia was always a disturbance in going to tea with
the Brooms. Grace Broom was the only girl in the school for whom she had
an active aversion. She put one or two questions about them, ‘You really
like going there?’ ‘You’ll go on seeing them after you leave?’ and
concluded carelessly ‘that’s a mystery to me----’
Sitting at tea shut in in the Brooms’ little dining-room with the blinds
down and the dark red rep curtains drawn and the gas-light and brilliant
fire-light shining on the brilliantly polished davenport in the
window-space and the thick bevelled glass of the Satsuma-laden mahogany
sideboard, the dim cracked oil-painting of Shakespeare above the
mantel-shelf, the dark old landscapes round the little walls, the new
picture of Queen Victoria leaning on a stick and supported by Hindu
servants, receiving a minister, the solid silver tea-service, the fine
heavily edged linen table-cover, the gleaming, various, delicately
filled dishes, the great bowl of flowers, the heavy, carven, unmoved,
age-long dreaming faces of the three women with their living interested
eyes, she would suddenly, in the midst of a deep, calm undisturbing
silence become aware of Julia. Julia would not be impressed by the
surroundings, the strange silent deeps of the room. She would discover
only that she was with people who revered “our Queen” and despised “the
working classes.” It would be no satisfaction to her to sit drinking
from very exquisite old china, cup after cup of delicious very hot tea,
laughing to tears over the story of the curate who knelt insecurely on a
high kneeling stool at evening service in a country church and crashing
suddenly down in the middle of a long prayer went on quietly intoning
from the floor, or the madeira cake that leapt from the cake-dish on an
at-home day and rolled under the sofa. She would laugh, but she would
look from face to face, privately, and wonder. She would not really like
the three rather dignified seated forms with the brilliant, tear-filled
eyes, sitting on over tea, telling anecdotes, and tales of long strange
illnesses suffered by strange hidden people in quiet houses, weddings,
deaths, the stories of families separated for life by quarrels over
money, stories of far-off holidays in the country; strange sloping rooms
and farmhouse adventures; the cow that walked into the bank in a little
country town.... Mrs. Philps’ first vision, as a bride, of the English
Lakes, the tone of her voice as she talked about all these things.
The getting together and sitting about and laughing in the little room
would never be to her like being in a world that was independent of all
the other worlds. She would not want to go again and again and sit, just
the four women, at tea, talking. The silent, beautifully kept,
experienced old furniture all over the house would not fill her with
fear and delight and strength. It would be no satisfaction to her to put
on her things in front of the huge plate glass of the enormous
double-fronted wardrobe in the spare-room with its old Bruges ware and
its faded photographs of the interiors of unknown churches, rows and
rows of seats and a faded blur where the altar was, thorn-crowned heads
and bold scrolly texts embroidered in crimson and gold silken mounted
and oak-framed. And when she went home alone along the quiet, dark,
narrow, tree-filled little roadways she would not feel gay and strong
and full of personality.
13
On prize-giving day, Miriam’s last day, Julia seemed to disappear. For
the first time since she had come to the school it was as if she were
not there. She was neither talking nor watching nor steering anything at
all. Again and again during the ceremonies Miriam looked at her sitting
or moving about, pale and plain and shabby, one of the crowd of girls.
The curious power of the collected girls, their steady profiles, their
movements, their unconcerned security rose and flooded round Miriam as
it had done when she first came to the school. But she no longer feared
it. It was going on, harsh and unconscious and determined, next term.
She was glad of it; the certainty thrilled her; she wanted to convey
some of her gladness to Julia, but could not catch her eye.
Her gladness carried her through the most tedious part of the day’s
performances, the sitting in a listening concourse, doors open, in the
schoolroom, while some ten of the girls went one by one with stricken
faces into the little drawing-room and played the piece they had learned
during the term. Their shame and confusion, the anger and desperation of
their efforts, the comments of the listeners and their violent ironic
applause roused her to an intensity of sympathy. How they despised the
shame-faced tinkling; how they admired the martyrs.
Their strong indifference seemed to centre in the cold pale scornful
face of Jessie Wheeler, sitting squarely there with defiant eyes,
waiting for the future; the little troop of children she dreamed of.
These North London girls would be scornful mocking fiancées. They would
be adored by their husbands. Secretly they would forget their husbands
in their houses and children and friends.
14
Julia was the last player. She sidled swiftly out of the room; even her
habitual easy halting lounge seemed to have deserted her; and almost at
once, slow and tragic and resignedly weeping came the opening notes of
Chopin’s Funeral March. Sitting in the front row of the little batch of
children from the lower school who faced the room from the window bay,
Miriam saw, in fancy, Julia’s face as she sat at the drawing-room
piano--the face she had when she talked of the woods and the sea. The
whole of the long march, including the major passage, was the voice of
Julia’s strange desolation. She played painfully, very slowly and
carefully, with tender respectful attention, almost without emphasis.
She was not in the least panic-stricken; anyone could feel that; but she
had none of the musical assurance that would have filled the girls with
uneasy admiration and disgust. They were pleased and amused. And far
away, Julia was alone with life and death. She made two worlds plain,
the scornful world of the girls and her own shadow-filled life.
Miriam longed for the performance to be at an end so that the girls
might reassert themselves.
15
An important stirring was going on at the little table where Miss Cramp
sat with the Pernes; only their heads and shoulders showing above the
piles of prize-books. Miss Perne stood up and faced the room smiling and
gently muttering. Presently her voice grew clear and she was making
little statements and pronouncing names, clearly and with gay tender
emphasis, the names of tall bold girls in the first class. One by one
they struggled to the table and stood gentle and disturbed with flushed
enlightened faces. Not a single girl could stand unconcerned before Miss
Perne. Even Polly Allen’s brow was shorn of its boldness.
The girls knew. They would remember something of what the Pernes had
tried to give them.
The room was unbearably stuffy. The prize-giving was at an end. Miriam’s
own children had struggled to the table and come back to her for the
last time.
Miss Perne was making a little speech ... about Miss Henderson’s
forthcoming departure. Why did people do these formal things? She would
be expected to make some response. For a moment she had the impulse to
get up and rush away through the hall, get upstairs and pack and send
for a four-wheeler. But from behind came hands dragging at a fold of her
dress and the sound of Burra’s hard sobbing. She felt the child’s head
bowed against her hip. A child at her side twisted its hands together
and sat with its head held high, drawing sharp breaths. Miss Perne’s
voice went on. She was holding up an umbrella, a terrible, expensive,
silver-mounted one. The girls had subscribed.
Miriam sat with beating heart waiting for Miss Perne’s voice to cease,
pressing back towards the support of Burra and other little outstretched
clutchings and the general snuffling of her class, grappling with the
amazement of hearing from various quarters of the room violent and
repeated nose-blowings, and away near the door in the voice of a girl
she had hardly spoken to a deep heavy contralto sobbing.
Presently she was on her feet with the tightly-rolled silken twist of
the umbrella heavy in her hands. Her stiff lips murmured incoherent
thanks in a strange thin voice--Harriett’s voice with the life gone from
it.
NOTE.--_A further instalment of this book is in preparation._
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1916
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GENERAL LITERATURE
D. H. LAWRENCE
Twilight in Italy. By D. H. LAWRENCE, author of “Sons and
Lovers,” “The Prussian Officer,” etc. Cloth gilt. In the Uniform
Edition of Mr. Lawrence’s Works. Crown 8vo, 6s.
This volume of travel vignettes by Mr. Lawrence, shows him in a
fresh medium. Mr. Lawrence has published novels, stories, poems,
and a play, and now he appears with a volume of studies or
impressions, of life and scenes in the North of Italy. Some of
the chapters appeared serially in the English Review and the
Westminster Gazette, but they have been revised and rewritten for
publication in book form. Several chapters, however, now appear
for the first time. The volume will be published uniform with the
author’s collected works, which are being issued in a library
edition.
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BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Amores: Poems. By D. H. LAWRENCE. Cloth gilt. Crown 8vo, 5s. net;
postage, 4d.
PRESS OPINIONS ON MR. LAWRENCE’S PREVIOUS BOOK OF VERSE
“LOVE POEMS”
“The book of the moment in verse.”--Bookman.
“Imagination, apprehension, economy of means, and delicate
ecstatic beauty are in these verses.”--The Times.
“We have nothing but praise for this book of love
poems.”--English Review.
--------
A UNIFORM EDITION OF THE
Works of D. H. Lawrence
Cloth Gilt. Crown 8vo, 6s. each
Sons and Lovers. A Novel
The Prussian Officer, and other Stories
The Trespasser. A Novel
The White Peacock. A Novel
--------
The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd. A Play. (3s. 6d. net)
Love Poems (5s. net)
“D. H. Lawrence is a master.”--Daily Telegraph.
“‘Sons and Lovers’ is a great book.”--Standard.
“No novel of recent years is the equal of ‘The
Trespasser.’”--Observer.
“Mr. Lawrence, with this volume (‘The Prussian Officer’), takes
his place in the first flight of modern writers.”--English
Review.
“‘The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd’ has the qualities of finished
craftsmanship. It is packed with significance and suggestion. It
has the power to exalt and enrich the mind and the
emotions.”--Times.
“‘The White Peacock’ aroused enthusiasm and now ‘The Trespasser’
has appeared. It is no common novel. Helena is a grand full
length portrait. There are pieces of writing which could not be
surpassed.... A picture as powerful as any painted by an artist
in words.”--Saturday Review, in a review of “The Trespasser.”
“Evidently written at a white heat of inspiration. Wonderfully
sustained. A remarkable book to be read by the discriminating and
the experienced.”--The Morning Post, in a review of “The
Trespasser.”
“A wonderful piece of portraiture. Strong, admirable and
pathetic.”--Daily Telegraph, in a review of “Sons and Lovers.”
“A study of warring loves and passions, containing much beauty.
The sheer hard matter of living is vividly presented; the toil of
existence in village and town, the solace of nature, the joy of
respite from labour admirably realised and presented.”--Times, in
a review of “Sons and Lovers.”
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THE READERS’ LIBRARY
New Volume
PRINCE KROPOTKIN
Ideals and Realities in Russian Literature. By PRINCE PETER
KROPOTKIN. New and Revised Edition. Type Reset. In the Readers’
Library. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net; postage, 5d.
This very important book has been unobtainable for some time, but
it now appears with author’s alterations and corrections, so that
it is entirely up to date.
The interest in Russian literature which has grown so remarkably
during the last few years is likely to increase still further in
the near future. Until the nineties, the Russian writers, with
the single exception of Tolstoi, were unknown in this country.
To-day translations of Russian fiction and drama are published
very frequently, and the writings of Tourguéniev, Dostoieffsky,
Tchekoff, Gorky are known to a great number of readers.
In order to appreciate and understand Russian literature an
authoritative volume such as this is essential to the reader.
Prince Kropotkin surveys the whole field--Early folk
literature--Folklore--Songs--Sagas--Poetry--Drama and
Fiction--right to the present day. He gives full biographical
information concerning the outstanding figures, with a full and
critical account of their work and ideas. The lesser figures are
treated proportionately, so as to form a full and informative as
well as critical volume. The tone of the book is “popular” in the
sense that it is very easily read and apprehended. This does not
mean that the subject is treated in any way superficially.
A work of sound criticism which should be in every public and
private library.
--------
New Volume
FRANCIS STOPFORD
Life’s Great Adventure. By FRANCIS STOPFORD, author of “The Toil
of Life.” Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net; postage, 5d.
Mr. Francis Stopford’s ideas on life and service are expressed in
these essays for those on the threshold of life. They are
addressed primarily to those who have yet to face the more
serious problems of life, not the very young, but those entering
on the responsibilities of parentage, or those who are to be
counted on as being in charge of the succeeding generation.
*** A full descriptive booklet of over forty volumes of the
Readers’ Library, illustrated with portraits, can be had
free on request.
--------
An American Poet
WALT MASON
Horse Sense. Poems. By WALT MASON. With Prefatory Letter by JOHN
MASEFIELD. Fcap. 8vo, 2s. 6d. net; postage, 4d.
Walt Mason’s verse has attracted a great deal of attention when
it has appeared from time to time in the daily press. He has been
described as the high priest of ‘horse sense,’ and this
collection of his prose poems is calculated to reveal him
particularly in the light of a practical man of vigorous mind,
whose sense of values is sound and who expresses his views
tersely and emphatically. He writes with singular facility, and
has complete mastery of rhythm and rhyme. His range is from grave
to gay, from wholehearted endorsement of some homely virtue to
vigorous condemnation of cant, fraud, and shams of all kinds.
Mr. John Masefield writes:--“I read Walt Mason with great
delight. His poems have wonderful fun and kindliness, and I have
enjoyed them the more for their having so strongly all the
qualities I liked so much in my American friends when I was
living in the United States.
“I don’t know any book which has struck me as so genuine a voice
of the American nature.
“I am glad that his work is gaining a wider and wider
recognition.”
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South America as it is To-day
ROGER W. BABSON
The Future of South America. By ROGER W. BABSON. With 16
Illustrations and Two Maps. 407 pages. Crown 8vo, 7s. 6d. net;
postage, 6d.
There is astonishingly little in the literature about South
America which explains what that continent really means to
business people who are open to extend their trade in foreign
markets. Such an interpretation is given in this book, together
with an interesting account of the picturesque and romantic sides
of South American life, its history, customs and resources, also
information for the business man. Mr. Babson is known as a writer
on economic questions and as an interpreter of statistical data
and industrial and business conditions. He has for years
methodically studied South America and its business
possibilities. He is peculiarly fitted to draw conclusions about
South America as an economic problem, which will be of the utmost
value to the banker, manufacturer, exporter, investor, and the
general student of foreign relations, affairs, and trade.
The book is especially authoritative and official on account of
the fact that leading government officials, usually the
Presidents of the various countries, have co-operated with Mr.
Babson.
As a result his book should prove a suggestive volume for all
having or hoping to have business relations with the countries
described and also for the general reader who is interested in
the economic side of the problem.
--------
CHARLES M. DOUGHTY
The Titans. A Dramatic Poem. By CHARLES M. DOUGHTY, author of
“Travels in Arabia Deserta,” “The Dawn in Britain,” “The Cliffs,”
“The Clouds,” etc. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 5s. net; postage, 5d.
SOME PRESS OPINIONS ON MR. DOUGHTY’S EARLIER WORKS
“The sense of England is the burning thing in these two dramas;
the sense of England as only wartime can make it, which glows
through all the magnificent monologue with which ‘The Cliffs’
open, or which brightens into most exquisite flame in ‘The
Clouds.’”--LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE, in the Quarterly Review.
“Mr. Doughty occupies a position by himself. The vigorous impulse
and imaginative strength of his genius have created their own
medium. Work which owes its power to the bigness of its design
and the sheer weight of imagination and intellect.
“This is an amazingly vivid picture of the fury and wreckage of
war. In part of the poem Mr. Doughty approaches more nearly to
the idyllic than in any other of his works. It is a great work,
full of faith and thought and compelling sincerity, and rich
poetic beauty.”--Spectator.
“Mr. Doughty is the prophet of Patriotism. Wandering in the
Muses’ Garden, he has received the divine call to chant patriot
hymns, and it is his mission to rouse his country to a sense of
the wrath to come in the guise of ‘air-flying Eastlanders.’ ‘The
Clouds,’ is a passionate plea for the nation. His verse is
astoundingly vivid and vehement, every now and then breaking into
a startling beauty.”--English Review.
“Mr. Doughty’s ideas and his outlook might be those of Nelson’s
captains could they be called back to life. He thrills our
imagination. His historical sense is so vital and far-reaching,
his patriotic imagination so deeply rooted in the soil of our
forbears’ achievements.... A poem that, we venture to think, will
become a classic. ‘The Clouds,’ as an achievement, possesses a
creative actuality, a breadth of vision, an intensity of
imaginative life. The effect of the poem is cumulative, and no
quotation can convey any idea of the atmosphere of the whole
varied picture.”--The Nation.
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A New Impression
JOHN MORSE
An Englishman in the Russian Ranks: Ten Months’ Fighting in
Poland. By JOHN MORSE. 4th printing. Crown 8vo, 6s.
SOME PRESS OPINIONS
“This remarkably impressive book is probably the most notable
piece of war literature the war has yet produced.”--The Times.
“Tolstoy’s pictures of Sebastopol or Dostoievsky’s account of
Siberia do not haunt one much more than episodes in this
book.”--Spectator.
“Those who wish to see the war without any illusion cannot afford
to miss this the most impressive book that has so far appeared
about it.”--Country Life.
“This book is one of the most remarkable the war has yet given
us.... He keeps us spellbound with his artless narrative.... This
is decidedly a war book to be read.”--Daily News.
“We can but offer our sincere congratulations to Mr. Morse on his
splendid achievement; through him the name of Englishman will
stand firmer in Russia, firmer in the world.”--Saturday Review.
“The war continues to provide incidentally many vivid narratives
... and this narrative ... must certainly be reckoned one of the
most interesting out of many.”--Evening Standard.
“It is a most astonishing book.”--Daily Express.
“Having served for ten months as a volunteer in the Russian Army,
the author has had such strange adventures that his experiences
have provided material for what is undoubtedly one of the most
remarkable books concerning the war.”--Outlook.
“As a witness of what actually happened on the Russian frontier
Mr. Morse comes forward with a book of engrossing interest....
The story of his escape and privations which followed is
thrilling in the extreme and related with a quiet restraint and
modesty which, as in every chapter of the book, are an earnest of
truth.”--Daily Telegraph.
“Mr. Morse has written a book which, as far as I know, is unique.
It is an extraordinarily vivid account of an Englishman who
enlisted in the Russian rank and fought all through the
early--and they were in many ways the most terrible--months of
the war. As a picture of war it is literally haunting. Mr. Morse
writes with the conviction of one who has seen all he desires to
prove. Apart from the book’s value as a personal narrative, it is
notable for the fine description it gives of life in the Russian
Army; while those who thirst for adventure will find no book of
fiction stir them more greatly than this author’s account of how
he was captured and how he escaped.”--Tatler.
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THEOLOGY
THE REV. CANON RASHDALL, F.B.A.
Conscience and Christ. By THE REV. CANON HASTINGS RASHDALL,
D.Litt. (Oxon), D.C.L. (Durham), F.B.A., author of “Philosophy
and Religion,” etc. Crown 8vo, 5s. net; postage, 5d.
The book is an attempt to answer the question “in what relation
does the authority of Conscience, which most Christians
acknowledge, stand to the authority of Jesus Christ?” The first
chapter is a brief enquiry into the nature of Conscience on the
one hand and of various forms of external authority on the other.
The answer given is that no external authority can be taken as an
absolutely final guide for conduct unless it does commend itself
to the enlightened Conscience: it is contended that the teaching
of Jesus Christ does so commend itself. In the second chapter is
attempted the investigation of the recent teaching which makes
“Eschatology” the answer of Christ’s message, and treats his
moral teaching as a mere “Interimsethik.” The third chapter
examines the actual contents of that teaching; the fourth deals
with some commonly urged objections to the Christian Ethic--the
finality of this Ethic is asserted upon condition that the
necessity of development is fully recognised. The fifth chapter
examines the nature of the development which the fundamental
principles taught by Jesus have received and must continue to
receive in the Christian Church. The sixth chapter is devoted to
a brief examination of other ethical systems, philosophical and
religious, and endeavours to show that not one of them can be
regarded as a satisfactory substitute for Christianity while the
permanent elements of each are recognised and included in the
Christian ideal. It is also contended that the highest ethical
influence of Christianity is inseparable from a reverent
following of the personal Christ.
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THE REV. E. GRIFFITH-JONES, D.D.
Faith and Immortality. By THE REV. E. GRIFFITH-JONES, B.A., D.D.,
Principal of the United Independent College, Bradford. Author of
“The Challenge of Christianity to a World at War,” “The Ascent
Through Christ.” Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net; postage, 5d.
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STUDIES IN THEOLOGY--New Volumes
THE REV. CHARLES A. BRIGGS, D.D.
History of the Study of Theology. By the late CHARLES AUGUSTUS
BRIGGS, D.D., D.Litt., of the Union Theological Seminary, New
York. In Two Volumes. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net each volume;
postage, 5d.
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THE REV. PRINCIPAL FORSYTH, M.A., D.D.
The Justification of God. By THE REV. PRINCIPAL P. T. FORSYTH,
M.A., D.D., of the Hackney Theological College, University of
London. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net; postage, 5d.
Other Volumes already published in the Series are:--
Christianity and Ethics. By ARCHIBALD B. D. ALEXANDER, M.A., D.D.
The Environment of Early Christianity. By S. ANGUS, M.A., Ph.D.
The Christian Hope: A Study in the Doctrine of the Last Things.
By W. ADAMS BROWN, Ph.D., D.D.
Christianity and Social Questions. By WILLIAM CUNNINGHAM, F.B.A.,
D.D., D.Sc.
A Handbook of Christian Apologetics. By A. E. GARVIE, D.D.
A Critical Introduction to the Old Testament. By GEORGE BUCHANAN
GRAY, D.D., D.Litt.
Gospel Origins. By WILLIAM WEST HOLDSWORTH, M.A.
Faith and Its Psychology. By WILLIAM R. INGE, D.D.
Christianity and Sin. By ROBERT MACKINTOSH, D.D.
Protestant Thought before Kant. By A. C. MCGIFFERT, Ph.D., D.D.
The Theology of the Gospels. By JAMES MOFFATT, D.D., D.Litt.
History of Christian Thought since Kant. By EDWARD CALDWELL
MOORE, D.D.
The Doctrine of the Atonement. By J. K. MOZLEY, M.A.
Revelation and Inspiration. By JAMES ORR, D.D.
A Critical Introduction to the New Testament. By ARTHUR SAMUEL
PEAKE, D.D.
Philosophy and Religion. By HASTINGS RASHDALL, D.Litt. (Oxon),
D.C.L. (Durham), F.B.A.
The Holy Spirit. By T. REES, M.A. (Lond.), B.A. (Oxon.).
The Religious Ideas of the Old Testament. By H. WHEELER ROBINSON,
M.A.
The Text and Canon of the New Testament. By ALEXANDER SOUTER,
D.Litt.
Christian Thought to the Reformation. By HERBERT B. WORKMAN,
D.Litt.
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FICTION
BERNARD CAPES
If Age Could. By BERNARD CAPES, author of “A Jay of Italy,” “The
Lake of Wine,” etc.
Mr. Bernard Capes’ new novel, “If Age Could,” will rank among the
most important of the many popular books which bear his name--
“If Youth but Knew”
“If Age Could”
Eustace Ward discovered that his ward Veronica appealed more to
his senses than he had ever thought possible. He had come to
think he was proof against the effects of feminine charm except
in a detached and esthetic way. He is, however, held back by the
fear that she regards him as old. The aloof and self-centred
attitude towards life of both him and his ward with their ample
means is shown without insistence, while the events of August
1914 do not greatly disturb their self-sufficiency. The
subsequent bombardment of the North-East coast brings tragedy
very near to Ward’s country seat. It is then that they for the
first time consciously and on an impulse do an action which is
for another’s benefit and which involves their own complete
sacrifice.
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TEMPLE BAILEY
Contrary Mary. A Novel. By TEMPLE BAILEY. 352 pages. Crown 8vo,
6s.
“Contrary Mary” will win her way to the hearts of all who meet
her, and the story of the fortunes of her family will provide
restful enjoyment for a very large circle of readers. It is
seldom that a clean, sweet story is not open to the criticism of
being “pretty.” “Contrary Mary” is, however, an exceptional book,
and while it shows the best side of human nature it can never be
charged with being mawkish or sugary. While it has no bad
characters, and only one unfortunate one, the reader is aware
that the author has a firm grip on life. It is clever work, and
shows the author as a writer of depth and feeling.
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BEY SOMERVILLE
The Passing of Nahla. A Story of the Desert. By BEY SOMERVILLE.
Crown 8vo, 6s.
This story of Nahla, a native girl child, and of the white man
who educates and makes a companion of her, is full of atmosphere.
The baby girl is an amusing companion for the educated,
temperamental poet, and to see her develop under his guidance and
tuition is for him of unfailing interest. In the intense life of
the East she is very quickly a grown woman. Her devotion is
pathetic in its self abasement, and she is ready to accept either
life or death at his hands. The inevitable tragedy is when the
desire comes to the man to return to his own people and their
code of life. It is then he has to reckon with Nahla’s jealousy
and fierce devotion.
Apart from the story the book is worth reading for its rendering
of the call and influence of the desert on a highly developed
personality. The author feels its magic spell and is very
successful in transmitting it to the reader.
--------
DOROTHY M. RICHARDSON
Backwater. A Novel. By DOROTHY M. RICHARDSON, author of “Pointed
Roofs.” Crown 8vo, 6s.
Those who read “Pointed Roofs” will remember taking leave of
Miriam as she got in the train for home, after her term as
assistant teacher in a German school was ended. “Backwater”
continues the narrative of Miriam’s life, the period now being
the emotional period of life, when life is at its fullest.
The reception given to “Pointed Roofs” has given Miss Richardson
a status. She is recognized as a writer whose method is original
and “different,” and who is thereby successful in conveying by
means of a few strokes the vital experiences of her characters
and their action on one another. Mr. J. D. Beresford, who
contributed an introduction to “Pointed Roofs,” admitted having
read the story three times, the pleasure he experienced at the
first being increased by subsequent readings. He considers
“Backwater” even more interesting.
--------
E. C. BOOTH
Fondie. A Novel. By E. C. BOOTH, author of “The Cliff End,” “The
Doctor’s Lass.” Crown 8vo, 6s.
This story of Fondie Bassiemoor, his life, and also that of the
inhabitants of Wivvle, a Yorkshire village, is a big novel in
every way. Mr. Booth’s unhurried method requires a large canvas,
and although the story is long for a modern novel the feeling of
the reader at the finish is that on no account would he have it
shorter.
Mr. Booth pictures the everyday life of a rural village in
Yorkshire with all its types and characters clearly and lovingly
drawn; the comedy and tragedy of life painted with the sure hand
of an artist and master craftsman. The natural tone and accent of
speech is reproduced, but there is nothing irritating in its
transcription as the author renders the Yorkshire dialect in such
manner and so naturally that no unusual effort is required to
read it.
The note of comedy is preserved through the greater part of the
book, but the sadness of life is not ignored. To each their
place.
The author’s previous books have been unreservedly praised, but
it is thought by competent judges that “Fondie” is a particular
advance on any of his earlier work. For a comparison one must go
to the early work of Thomas Hardy. Perhaps “Far from the Madding
Crowd” is the closest. Mr. Booth’s “Fondie” will stand the
comparison very well.
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MARY AGNES HAMILTON
Dead Yesterday. By MARY AGNES HAMILTON, author of “Less than the
Dust,” “Yes.” Crown 8vo, 6s.
This novel has been described by critics who have read it in
manuscript as both clever and brilliant. It is notably modern in
its feeling and outlook, its detail and allusions revealing its
author’s interest in the artistic and social ideas which were
current in 1914. The action of the story begins before the war,
but is carried past August 1914, and finishes towards the end of
1915. It gives a very effective picture of an educated and
bohemian coterie whose sophisticated attitude towards life is
sharply challenged by the realization of the need to fight for
national existence.
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MILDRED GARNER
Harmony. A Novel. By MILDRED GARNER. Crown 8vo. 6s.
The scent of old-fashioned flowers, the drowsy hum of bees, and
the quiet spell of the countryside is realized in every page of
“Harmony.” Peacewold is a harbour of refuge where gather those in
need of the sympathy which the Little Blue Lady unfailingly has
for her friends when they are distressed in spirit or body. To
her comes Star worn out with months of settlement work in Bethnal
Green, and Harmony whose sight is restored after years of
blindness. Robin Grey, the austere Richard Wentworth and his son
Bede, all come and she gives to each from the fulness of her
spirit and faith. Willow, whose story the book is, also has
reason to love the Little Blue Lady who has been as a mother to
her.
The book is distinguished for its shining faith and belief in the
inherent goodness of human nature when subject to right
influences. The searchings of heart when love comes and
temporarily wrecks the harmony of Peacewold are shown to be for
the good of those concerned and helpful to them in their
development.
“Harmony” is essentially a novel of sentiment and should
certainly find many readers. It is earnest and sincere, and
promises well for the author’s future as a successful novelist.
--------
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS
Somewhere in France. Stories. By RICHARD HARDING DAVIS, author of
“With the Allies,” etc., etc. Illustrated. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.
net.
A new volume by the popular war correspondent. The stories are
varied in theme, and are not solely devoted to war. The title of
the book is obtained from the first story which is of spying and
spies during the German advance on Paris.
--------
LESLIE MONTGOMERY
Mr. Wildridge of the Bank. An Irish Novel. By LESLIE MONTGOMERY.
Crown 8vo, 6s.
Mr. Leslie Montgomery will be welcomed as an acquisition to the
ranks of humorous novelists. Like George Birmingham he writes of
the North of Ireland and shows the everyday life of a small town.
The competition of the local managers of the two banks to secure
the account of the heir to a fortune is very amusing and always
strictly probable. How Mr. Wildridge gets the capital subscribed
for the woollen factory: how the confiding Rector and his
daughter are saved from dishonour, and how Orangemen and Sinn
Feiners, Protestants and Catholics are cunningly induced to work
for the prosperity of the town in order to ‘dish’ each other are
all related in an easy and convincing way. The story is told in
light comedy vein, at times becoming madcap farce, and yet it
cannot be said that the bounds of possibility are ever surpassed.
There is not an unpleasant or disagreeable character in the book,
and the humour is at the expense of everyone in the town. Anthony
Wildridge is always cultivated, adroit and audacious, and
deserves all his success. At the close he discovers that he is
younger and more susceptible than he thought he was.
--------
DUCKWORTH & CO., COVENT GARDEN, LONDON, W.C.
Transcriber’s Notes
The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical
errors were silently corrected. Further careful corrections, some after
consulting other editions, are listed here (before/after):
[p. 68]:
... to an end just as the picture of the French count ...
... to an end just as the picture of the French court ...
[p. 86]:
... back to the table so that nobody “poked.” She ...
... backs to the table so that nobody “poked.” She ...
[p. 252]:
... and canons and things make a frightful noise.” ...
... and cannons and things make a frightful noise.” ...
[p. 277]:
... That life and such happiness in store for him is ...
... That life had such happiness in store for him is ...
[p. 283]:
... lounge seemed to have deserted her; and almost ...
... lounge seemed to have deserted her; and almost at ...