without fault of your own, as may possibly be, no one could pity you
more than I. I can imagine such a case, and I could not look at you and
think any evil of you. But if you know the world at all, you must know
that these things--let a woman be utterly free from fault herself--carry
their inexorable consequences."
"I know the world but little," said Christine, "and yet I know that."
"Then, my dear child, you cannot wonder that the woman so unfortunately
situated is thought to be debarred from honorable marriage."
"I do not wonder when I meet with this judgment in the world or in
you. I only wondered when I found in your son a being too high for
it--a being to whom right is right and pureness is pureness, as it is
to God. You will remember, madame, that it was your son who claimed
that I was not debarred from honorable marriage, and not I. Oh, I have
suffered--you were right. No wonder that the sign of it is branded on my
forehead for all the world to see. I have suffered in a way as far
beyond the worst pain you have ever known as that pain of yours has been
from pleasure. You have known death in its most awful form when it took
from you your dearest ones, but I have known death too. My little baby,
who was like the very core of my heart, round which the heartstrings
twisted, and the clinging flesh was wrapped, was torn away from me by
death, and it was pain and anguish unspeakable--but I have known a
suffering compared to which that agony was joy. There can be worse
things to bear than the death of your heart's dearest treasure--at least
I know it may be so with women. And it was because you were a woman,
with a woman's possibilities of pain, that I wanted to come to you--to
tell you all, and let you say whether I am a fit wife for your son."
Ah, poor Christine! She felt, as she spoke those words, the silent,
still, impalpable recoil in her companion's heart. She knew the poor
woman was trying to be kind and merciful and sympathetic, but she also
knew that what she had just said had rendered Noel's mother the foe and
opposer of this marriage, instead of its friend.
"Go on, tell me all," his mother said, and that subtle change of voice
and manner was distincter still to the acute consciousness of
Christine's suffering soul. "I will be your friend whatever happens, and
I honor you for the spirit in which you look upon this thing. I will
speak out boldly, though you know I dislike to give you pain. But tell
me this: Do you think yourself a fit wife for my son?"
Christine raised her head and answered with a very noble look of pride:
"I do."
Her companion seemed to be surprised, and a faint shade of disapproval
crossed her face.
"I know it," said Christine. "I know he did not say too much when he
spoke those blessed words to you and said I was stainless. God saw my
heart through everything and He knows that it is so, but the world
thinks otherwise. The world, and his own family, perhaps, would think
your son lowered and dishonored by marrying me, and I never could
consent to go among the people who could think it; so, if he married
me, he would not only have to bear this odium, but to give up too,
forever, his home and relatives, and friends and country, and it was for
these reasons I refused to marry him--not for an instant because I felt
myself unworthy."
It was plain that these earnest words had moved her companion deeply,
and that she felt a desire to hear more.
"Tell me the whole story," she said. "This you have promised to do, and
you have made me eager to hear it. Remember how little I have been told.
I do not even know your name."
With the full gaze of her sorrowful eyes upon the elder woman's face,
she said quietly:
"My name is Christine."
There was an infinite proud calm in her voice, and in the same tone she
went on:
"I bore throughout my childhood and my young girl days another name that
seems in no sense to belong to me now. That child and girl, Christine
Verrone, is not in any way myself. It seems only a sweet memory of a
dear young creature, nearer akin to the birds, and the winds, and the
flowers than to me. I cannot feel I ought to take her name, and pass
myself for her. For three years I bore another name, but it is one my
very lips refuse to utter now, and I never had a right to it. The one
name that I feel is really mine is just Christine--the name that was
given to the little baby, on whose forehead the sign of the cross was
made soon after she came into this sad world, to taste of its most awful
sorrow and to grow into the woman that I am. I have always loved it,
because, in sound, it seemed to bring me near to Christ--the dear Christ
who has never forsaken me since I have borne His sign, who has been
through all my loving, dear Brother, knowing and understanding all and
grieving that I had to suffer so. He is with me still. He will stay with
me if I have to give up earthly love and all that can make life happy. I
know He has let it all happen to me, and that it must be for my good. I
know I am as pure in His eyes as when I was that little baby, baptized
in His name, bearing the humanity He bore. You may decide my earthly
happiness as you choose. I am not comfortless. I know now the extent of
His perfect power to comfort, since I find that He can support me
through the supreme trial of giving up the man I love. It is in our
darkest hour He comes closest," she said, as if in a sort of ecstasy.
"He is here right with me now, strengthening and blessing me. I can feel
His hands on my head. They actually press and touch me."
The fervor of her voice, the exaltation of her look, and the extreme
realism of the words she used were indescribably awing and agitating to
her companion, to whom such evidences in connection with religious
feeling were utterly unprecedented. She saw that the source of this deep
emotion was utter despair of earthly happiness, as, in truth, it was.
From the moment that Christine had noted the change in her companion,
which had followed her partial confession, she felt that her doom was
sealed, and it was under the influence of this conviction that she had
spoken. She felt anxious now to finish the interview and get away, that
she might look her sorrow in the face, without the feeling of strange
eyes upon her, and that she might gather strength for her parting with
the man she loved.
Her last words had been followed by a thrilling silence which the other
felt herself powerless to break. It was Christine who spoke.
"I promised your son that I would tell you the history of my life," she
said. "I can give it to you very briefly. I was as innocent and
unknowing as a little child when I was taken from the convent where I
was educated, and married by my father to a man I scarcely knew. I
suppose I was a burden to my father and he wanted to get rid of me. He
told me that the whole of my mother's little fortune had been spent on
my education, and that he had no home to take me to, and that I must
marry. The young man he chose for me was good-looking and kind, though
he did not speak my language, and I knew almost nothing of his. My
father did everything. He assured me this man adored me and would do
everything to make me happy--would always take care of me and give me a
beautiful home in his land beyond the sea. I was ignorant of marriage as
a baby. It was easy to get up a girlish fancy for the young man thus
presented to my childish imagination, and I consented willingly. I had a
lot of charming clothes ordered for my trousseau, and I was as delighted
as a child. In this way I was married--"
"Ah, you were really married!" interrupted her companion, the cloud on
her face beginning to clear away. Christine saw it with a tinge of
bitterness in her gentle heart.
"No," she said, almost coldly, "I was not really married. I thought so,
and for three years I struggled through pain and woe and horror to do my
duty to the man to whom I believed myself bound by the holy and
indissoluble tie of marriage. I was ignorant, but somehow I had imbibed
from every source ever opened to me a deep sense of the sacredness and
eternity of that bond. So I fought and struggled on, feeling that truth
to that obligation was my one anchor in a sea of trouble. I thought when
I came here I could tell you some of the things I felt and endured, but
I cannot. There would be no use. The bare fact is enough for a woman's
heart. When my child came I fixed my whole soul's devotion on him. He
was always delicate and feeble, but I loved him as, perhaps, a strong
and healthy child could not have been loved. His father never noticed
him at all, except to show that he thought him a burden. That was the
final touch of complete alienation. Love--or what I had once called by
that name--was gone long ago. We had become extremely poor--every cent
of the principal had been spent in the most reckless way--oh, I can't
tell you all that. Your son will tell you if you ask him. I think a sort
of mental lack was at the back of it. I must hurry; I can't bear to go
over it all now. I met your son on the steamer coming over, and he was
kind to me then, suspecting, perhaps, how things were tending. Long
after I met him again, accidentally, and he found out how wretched and
poor I was, with my baby ill, and in need almost of the necessaries of
life. He gave me sittings at his studio, then, and paid me for
them--larger sums, I suppose, than they were worth. At any rate, he and
a good doctor and an old servant helped me through my trouble when my
baby died and was buried. Then--oh, I am almost done with it now, thank
God!" she said, with a great sobbing breath--"it came to your son's
knowledge, professionally, that another woman claimed the man I supposed
to be my husband, and he was about to be tried for--" she hesitated
before the word, and could not utter it. "Then--it was months ago--he
took me to Mrs. Murray, who took care of me through all the misery and
wretchedness of those first weeks, and afterward got me work to do that
I might make my own living. There I have been, in my sad peace and
safety, ever since--a broken-hearted, wretched, nameless woman, and as
such your son loved me. I returned his love with all the fire and
strength of an utterly unexpended force. I had never loved before. I
never felt the power of that love so mighty as now, in this moment that
I give him up."
"You shall not give him up! I know it all now, and, in spite of
everything, I tell you you shall not. Christine, listen, I give my
consent. I declare to you that you honor him supremely when you agree
to marry him. My child, if you had had a mother all this would not
have come to you. I rejoice to take you for my daughter. Look at me,
Christine, and try to feel that you have a mother at last."
It was almost too much for the strained nerves of the girl. She could
have borne denial calmly, seeing that she was ready for it, but the
great rush of joy that surged into her heart at these unexpected words
confused and agitated her. A strong voice spoke to her words of comfort
and cheer, and loving arms embraced her. Sweet mother-kisses were
pressed upon her cheeks and eyes, and she was gently reassured and
calmed and strengthened. Her mind was still a little dazed, however, and
she did not quite know how it was that she found herself now standing
alone, near the middle of the room.
The door opened. Some one entered and closed it softly. She felt that
it was Noel. He paused an instant near the threshold, and she turned
her head and looked at him. He held out his arms. They moved toward
each other, and she was folded in a close embrace. They remained so,
absolutely still. Her heart was beating in full, thick throbs against
his, which kept time to it. Her closed eyes were against his throat, and
she would not move so much as an eyelash. She gave herself up utterly to
this ecstasy of content.
"Don't move," she whispered. She was afraid this perfect moment would be
spoiled; a kiss, even, would have done it. But he seemed to understand,
and except to tighten slightly the pressure of his arms he kept
profoundly still. She could hear his low, uneven breathing and the
faint, regular ticking of his watch. They seemed enclosed in a silence
vast as space, and sweeter than thought could fathom. A great ocean of
contentment flowed about them, stretching into infinity. Neither could
have thought of anything to wish for. They seemed in absolute possession
of all joy.
A sound--the striking of a clock--broke the spell of silence. They moved
a little apart, and so looked long into each other's eyes. Then Noel
bent toward the face upraised to his, and their lips met.
There were tears in Christine's eyes as she sank back from that kiss,
but her happiness was complete, absolute, supreme. God had given to them
both his richest gift of pleasure after pain.
Some Books Worth While
"Some men borrow books; some men steal books; and others beg
presentation copies from the author"--_Her Majesty the King._
BOSTON 1901
CONTENTS
II The New Literary Review
III Outdoors
IV Wellesley Stories
V The Son of a Tory
VI A Beautiful Alien
VII Her Majesty the King
VIII Irish Mist and Sunshine
IX Four Days of God
X When Half-Gods Go
XI The Anvil
XII The Wings of the Morning
XIII The Lyric Library
XIV An Alphabetical List of Books
The New Literary Review
_A Monthly News Journal of Belles Lettres._
Single copies 10 cents. By the year $1.00
The publishers wish to make no large promises, but they believe _The New
Literary Review_ will be found to be as interesting a literary news
journal as any American periodical of the kind.
The department of notes and comment under the title of _Various
Appraisements_ the Editor will endeavor to make particularly inclusive
and entertaining.
The _Reviews of New Books_ while for the most part necessarily brief
will be written with the object of giving a concise, impartial and
careful summary of the books under discussion.
In addition to these _Notes and Reviews_ there will be many
contributions of _Essays_, _Poetry_, and _Fiction_.
The object of the Editor and Publishers is to present a programme which
without undue pretensions, will prove to be both well proportioned and
of considerable entertainment.
OUTDOORS
_A BOOK OF THE WOODS, FIELDS AND MARSHLAND_
_BY ERNEST McGAFFEY_
8vo. About 300 pp. Frontispiece in photogravure. $1.50
_THE CONTENTS_
1. The Marshes in April 17. Down the St. Joe River
2. Plover Shooting 18. Brook-trout Fishing
3. The Melancholy Crane 19. A Masque of the Seasons
4. Fishing for Big-mouth 20. Wood-chucks
Bass 21. Frog-hunting
5. Flight of Common Birds 22. The Crow's Wing
6. Fishing for Crappie 23. Prairie Chicken Shooting
7. In the Haunts of the Loon 24. A Fox in the Meramec
8. Blue-bills and Decoys Valley
9. Walking as a Fine Art 25. Fall Jack-snipe Shooting
10. Fishing for Bull-heads 26. In Dim October
11. Along a Country Road 27. Ruffed Grouse
12. Wood-cock Shooting 28. In Prairie Lands
13. Under the Green-wood 29. Hunting with Ferrets
Tree 30. The Bare, Brown Fields
14. Pan-fishing 31. Quail Shooting
15. A Northern Nightingale 32. In Winter Woods
16. Squirrel Shooting
[_Ready in May_
Wellesley Stories
_BY GRACE LOUISE COOK_
12mo. 340 pp. $1.50
_The Stories_
_Clorinda_ _Submerged_
_President Jefferson_ _A Lyrical Interlude_
_The Trial of Professor _Sir Toby's Career_
Lamont_ _Initiated Into Love_
_The Verdict_
These Wellesley stories give a truthful picture of Wellesley student
life that will appeal strongly to its alumnae, greatly interest
preparatory students, and should receive the hearty approval of its
under-graduates; and also, as is sometimes not the case, they are worthy
of a reading outside of college circles, for they meet the requirements
of a good "short story" of whatever theme.
Wellesley traditions, customs, and spirit pervade the book, either
described at some length or indicated by a masterly allusion. All kinds
of girls are depicted, as all kinds of girls go to college--girls poor
and rich, clever, dull, and commonplace, refined and unrefined, the
unsubstantial and the dilettante, and those with genuine talent, and the
life among them seems very real, for nothing is forced or strained in
the stories. The trial scene in Professor Lamont is one of the cleverest
bits of writing in any recent book of short stories, and it is a true
picture of the way in which college girls embrace every opportunity for
genuine fun. The last story in the book is one of the best college love
stories ever written. The dialogue is spirited, the diction graceful,
and a literary style is well sustained throughout.--_The N. Y. Times
Saturday Review._
[_Ready_
The Son of a Tory
_A ROMANCE OF THE MOHAWK VALLEY BY CLINTON SCOLLARD_
Frontispiece. 12mo. 307 pp. Cloth. Ornamental. $1.50
The Son of a Tory is one Wilton Aubrey by name, who narrates his
exciting experiences during the summer of 1777....
The first glimpse given of this Wilton Aubrey, also gives the news of
the planned invasion by Barry St. Leger and his army from the north,
with the hope by all his followers that every Whig should be forced to
become a loyal subject to the king.... At heart Aubrey was a true Whig
but a promise to his mother and his father's impaired health made it
stern duty, not to oppose his father, and to join a small Tory company,
which made a daring escape from their home, the Flatts, to Oswego to
join St. Leger. From this point one is introduced to countless important
personages and in a skillful way the characteristics of each is
portrayed. The hero's flight to the Whigs is most entertaining reading,
and then we meet with Aubrey many more men, who have made glorious
history for Americans. Is it all war? By no means; Margaret is a girl we
love with Wilton Aubrey, and revel in the descriptions of his perilous
trips to see his beloved, for who can help liking bravery in love as
well as in war. In the closing pages episode follows episode in rapid
succession, and the reader is carried to the end all too soon.... It is
a book, which if all the qualities that make a good book are taken into
consideration, ought to prove more of a success than some recent novels
which have gained a world-wide reputation.--_Clinton Advertiser._
"His Indians are the real thing and his hero is true blue."--_N. Y.
Journal._
[_Second edition ready_
A Beautiful Alien
_A NOVEL BY JULIA MAGRUDER_
Frontispiece. 12mo. Cloth, ornamental. $1.25.
This delightful novel is gradually winning its way into popular favor as
the most interesting and attractive piece of work Miss Magruder has ever
done. It certainly merits all its success and commendation for never has
she drawn a more lovable heroine or a more manly hero, and with
characters like these no story could be otherwise than thoroughly
charming. It is the story of a young and beautiful "Alien" cruelly
mislead by an unworthy father and a scoundrel of an American, who
finally succeeds in securing the love and happiness for which she so
ardently longs and so well deserves. The plot is well thought out, the
interest is wonderfully well sustained, and the charm of the story is
irresistible.
[_Third edition ready_
There are several laughs on every page.--_N. Y. Times Saturday Review._
Her Majesty the King
_A ROMANCE OF THE HAREM BY JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE_
With 16 full page pictures, and an elaborate cover design in many
colors. 12mo. $1.25.
As Mr. Roche modestly says in his _Forewarning_, "This volume,
containing the surprising adventures of the good Kayenna and the
marvellous wisdom of Shacabac, the wayfarer, needeth no apology. Its
merits are as many as its words."
And the reviewers have heartily agreed that "there are several laughs on
every page."
Published over two years ago, _Her Majesty the King_ is more popular
to-day than at any time since its publication. It is plainly not only a
book to read but to recommend to your friends.
"The wittiest book of the year."--_Boston Journal._
[_Fifth edition ready_
Irish Mist and Sunshine
_A BOOK OF BALLADS BY
REV. JAMES B. DOLLARD_
(Sliav-na-mon)
With an introduction by William O'Brien, M. P.
Small quarto. $1.50
This is a book of ringing Irish ballads that will stir the heart of
every lover of true poetry. "Here and there a verse may be as frankly
unadorned as the peasant cabins themselves in their homely cloaks of
thatch, but every line rings true to life and home and with the tone, as
heartmoving as the Angelus which holds Millet's peasants in its spell,"
from Mr. O'Brien's introduction.
"Father Dollard's ballads have all the fire and dash of Kipling's, with
a firmer poetic grasp," says Mr. Nathan Haskell Dole.
[_Ready in May_
Four Days of God
_BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD_
With about 90 illustrations. Bound in white and gold and purple
Small 4 to $1.00
It is quite impossible to describe adequately the surpassing charm of
this book. We can say simply that it will appeal to every lover of
nature who sees in her manifold beauties the living glories of the work
of God.
No one can write more beautiful or sparkling prose than Mrs. Spofford
and never has she been so absolutely charming as in _Four Days of God_.
The book has about 90 illustrations by Miss A. C. Tomlinson which catch
the spirit of the text to perfection and with the harmonious print and
paper and binding make the book a little gem.
[_Ready in September_
When Half-Gods Go
_A NOVEL BY JULIA MAGRUDER_
Frontispiece in photogravure. 12mo. 330 pp. $1.50
A new novel by Miss Magruder is always sure of its welcome and _When
Half-Gods Go_ will find for her even a wider audience than she has
hitherto enjoyed. It is a fascinating story of social and musical life
in New York, full of human interest and those happy touches Miss
Magruder can do so well. The title is from Emerson's lines "When
half-gods go the gods arrive." In addition to its charm as a story the
publishers think this book will be presented in the handsomest dress
ever bestowed upon a novel. The fascinating frontispiece is reproduced
in photogravure, the book is printed throughout in two colors, the text
being enclosed in remarkably well done decorations, and the cover
design, in colors, is at once delicate and effective.
[_Ready in September_
THE ANVIL
_A NOVEL BY R. V. RISLEY_
12 mo. Cloth. About 300 pp. $1.50
In _The Anvil_ Mr. Risley has produced a novel which for conception,
dramatic power, and sheer strength of characterization will stand head
and shoulders above the ordinarily well done novel of the day. In it for
the first time Mr. Risley "finds himself" and strikes the strong, clear
note he will sound, with ever increasing strength, in the literature
that lives. It is a novel that will make people _think_.
[_Ready in September_
The Wings of the Morning
_KENTUCKY STORIES BY ELEANOR TALBOT KINKEAD_
12 mo. About 300 pp. $1.50.
This volume by a writer who has already achieved considerable
distinction as a delineator of Kentucky life contains ten stories all of
which are notable for their originality of conception and delicacy of
treatment.
The stories are: _The Wings of the Morning_, _The Sifting of John
Witherspoon_, _The Piggins_, _Penelope's Suitors_, _My Young Miss_, _A
Pseudo Madonna_, _A Point of Honor_, _Mrs. Vail_, _The Pine Tree and the
Palm_, _A Glooming Peace_.
[_Ready in October_
The Lyric Library
A series of little books of verse in which it is the publishers' aim to
include the best work of the representative poets of America. The
volumes are in size a small 16 mo., handsomely printed and bound in full
flexible leather, stamped in gold. The price is $1.25 each.
POEMS OF THE TOWN by Ernest McGaffey.
"For terse English, for picturesque and appropriate imagery, for keen
and faithful portraiture Mr. McGaffey has no superior. And there will be
many to say that this book entitles him to recognition as the
interpreter of his age."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._
SONG SURF by Cale Young Rice.
"A volume of unusual proportion, artistic workmanship, lyric
inspiration; an absence of so much as a trace of morbid feeling, a
felicitous and poetic choice of subjects and intuitive good taste raise
the writer at once above the ranks of the versifier."--_The Arrowhead._
ONE DAY AND ANOTHER by Madison Cawein.
[_Ready in May_
FOR THINKING HEARTS by John Vance Cheney.
[_Ready in May_
IN THE HARBOR OF HOPE by Mary E. Blake.
[_Ready in June_
OTHERS IN PREPARATION.
Alphabetical List of Books by Authors