Before the lights went up on the first entr'acte Lydia retreated to the
little red-lined box of an anteroom and sank down on the red-silk sofa.
She and Miss Bennett had come alone to the opera; but Dorset and Albee,
who was committed to some sort of political dinner first, were to join
them presently.
Even while the house was still in darkness Lydia had recognized the
outline of O'Bannon's head in a box across the house. She had seen it
before she had seen Eleanor. Miss Bennett had stayed in the front of the
box. Lydia was glad she had. She wanted to be alone while she waited.
She could see her between the curtains, sweeping the house with her
opera glasses.
The door of the box opened and Albee came in. She did not speak, but
looking up at him every muscle in her body grew tense with interest. He
smiled at her and began to hang up his hat and take off his coat. She
couldn't bear the suspense.
"Well?" she asked sternly.
"It's all right. The governor will sign it. It's only been pressure of
business----"
She interrupted him.
"And the other thing? Have you failed there?" Somehow she had never
thought of his failing. What should she do if he had?
He made a quick pass with his right hand, indicating that O'Bannon had
been obliterated.
"Our friend will never be a partner in that firm," he said.
He looked at her eagerly and got his reward. She smiled at him, slowly
wagging her head at the same time, as if he were too wonderful for
words.
"Stephen, you are superb," she said, and evidently felt it. "Does he
know it yet?"
"No, he won't know it until he opens his mail to-morrow morning."
Lydia leaned forward and peered out into the house between the curtains.
Then she turned back and smiled again, but this time with amusement.
"He's over there now with Eleanor, pleased to death with himself and
thinking the world is his oyster."
Albee had been standing. Now as the lights began to sink for the opening
of the second act he gave an exclamation of annoyance.
"I have something to show you," he said. He sat down beside her on the
narrow little sofa, and lowering his voice to fit the lowered lights he
whispered, "What would you give for a copy of Simpson's letter
withdrawing his partnership offer?"
"You have it?" Her voice betrayed that she would give anything.
"What would you give me for it?" he murmured, and in the darkness he put
his arms about her and tried to draw her to him.
"I won't give you a thing!" Her voice was like steel, and so was her
body.
Albee's heart failed him. It seemed as if his arms were paralyzed. He
did not dare do what he had imagined himself doing--crushing her to him
whether she consented or not. He suddenly thought to himself that she
was capable of making an outcry.
"The inhuman, unfeminine creature!" he thought, even as he still held
her.
He felt her put out her hand and quietly take the letter from him. No,
that was a little too much! He caught her wrist and held it firmly. Then
the door opened, someone came in, Bobby's voice said, "Are you here,
Lydia?"
"Yes," said Lydia in her sweetest, most natural tone. "Turn on the
light, Bobby, or you'll fall over something. It's just there on your
right."
It took Bobby a moment to find the switch. When he turned on the light
he saw Lydia and Albee sitting side by side on the sofa. Lydia was
holding a folded paper in her hand.
"What's the point of sitting in here when the act is on?" said Bobby.
"Let's go in and see her vamp the strong man."
Lydia sprang up, and looking at Albee deliberately tucked away the paper
in the front of her low dress.
"Turn out the light again Bobby," she said. "It shines between the
curtains and disturbs me."
All three went back to the box, where Miss Bennett had been sitting
alone. It was a long time since Lydia had heard any music, and the music
of the second act of Samson and Delilah, the long sweeping chords on the
harp, began to trouble her, as the coming thunderstorm seemed to be
troubling Delilah.
Her long abstraction from any artistic impression made her as
susceptible as a child. The moonlight flooded her with a primitive
glamour, her nerves crept to the music of the incredibly sweet duet; and
when at last Samson followed Delilah into her house Lydia felt as if the
soprano's triumph were her own.
As the storm broke Albee rose. He bent over Miss Bennett and then over
Lydia.
"Good night, Delilah," he whispered.
She did not answer, but she thought, "Not to your Samson, Stephen
Albee."
He was gone and she still had the letter. When the act was over she went
back to the anteroom to read it. Yes, there it was on Simpson, Aspinwall
& McCarter's heavy, simple stationery--clear and unequivocal. Mr.
Simpson regretted so much that conditions had arisen which made it
imperative----
Lydia glanced across the house and caught O'Bannon laughing at something
that Eleanor was saying to him. She smiled. Whatever the joke was, she
thought she knew a better one.
"How lovely you look, Lydia," said Bobby, seeing the smile. "Almost like
a madonna in that white stuff--like a madonna painted by an Apache
Indian."
"Have you anything that I could write on Bobby--a scrap of paper?"
Bobby tore out a page from a cherished address book and gave it to her
with a gold pencil from his watch chain. She stood under the light,
pressing the top of the pencil against her lips. Then she wrote rapidly:
"I have something of importance to say to you. Will you meet me
in the lobby on the Thirty-ninth Street side at the end of the
performance and let me drive you home?
"LYDIA THORNE."
She folded it and held it out.
"Will you take that to O'Bannon and get an answer from him?"
"To O'Bannon?" said Bobby. "Has anything happened?"
"Don't bother me now, Bobby, there's a dear. Just take it." She half
shoved him out of the box. "And be as quick as you can," she called
after him.
He really was quick. In a few seconds she saw the curtain of the
opposite box pushed aside and Bobby enter. He spoke a moment to Eleanor,
and then when no one else was watching she saw him speak to O'Bannon
and give him her note. The two men rose and went together into the back
of the box out of her sight. What was happening? Was O'Bannon now on his
way to her? There was a long delay. Miss Bennett's voice called, "Is
somebody knocking?" The noise was Lydia's restless feet tapping on the
floor. Just as the lights began to go down Bobby returned--alone. He
handed her a note.
"Dear Miss Thorne: I cannot drive home with you, but I will
stop at your house for a few minutes about half-past eleven or
a quarter to twelve, if that is not too late.
"D. O'B."
Lydia smiled again. This was better still. She would have plenty of time
in her own drawing-room to reveal the facts in any way she liked. She
hardly heard the music of the next theme, hardly enjoyed the spectacle
of Samson's degradation, so absorbed was she in the anticipation of the
coming interview.
During the ballet in the last scene she saw Eleanor rise and O'Bannon
follow her. She sprang up at once, though Miss Bennett faintly
protested.
"Oh, aren't you going to wait to see him pull down the temple? It's such
fun." Miss Bennett liked to see masculine strength conquer. Lydia shook
her head, but offered no explanation.
It was almost half past eleven when they entered the house. Miss
Bennett, who had been yawning on the drive home, walked straight to the
staircase. Morson had delegated his duties for the evening to the parlor
maid, a young Swede, and she began industriously drawing the bolts of
the front door and preparing to put out the lights. Lydia stopped her.
"Get me a glass of water, will you, Frieda?" she said.
"There'll be one in your room, dear," Miss Bennett called back, every
inch the housekeeper. She did not stop, however, but went on up and
disappeared round the turn in the stairs.
When the girl came back Lydia said, "Frieda, I'm expecting a gentleman
in a few minutes. After you've let him in you need not wait up. Is the
fire lit in the drawing-room? Then light it, please."
She stood for a moment, sipping at the long, cool glass and listening to
hear Miss Bennett's footsteps growing more and more distant; listening,
too, for a footstep in the street.
In the drawing-room the firelight was already leaping up, outdoing the
light of the shaded lamps. Left alone, Lydia slipped off her opera cloak
very softly, as if she did not want to make the smallest noise that
would interfere with her listening. The house was quiet, and even the
noise of the city was beginning to die down. The steady roar of traffic
returning from the theater was almost over. Now and then she could hear
a Fifth Avenue bus rolling along on its heavy rubber tires; now and
then the slamming of a motor door as some of her neighbors returned from
an evening's amusement.
She bent over the fire trying to warm her hands. They were like ice, and
it must have been from cold, not excitement, she thought, for her mind
felt as calm as a well. She turned the little clock--all lilac enamel
and rhinestones--so that she could watch it's tiny face. It was a
quarter to twelve. She clenched her hands. Did he intend to keep her
waiting?
She started, for the door had softly opened. Miss Bennett entered in one
of her gorgeous dressing gowns of crimson satin and bright-blue birds.
"Dear child," she said, "you ought to be in bed."
"I'm waiting for someone who's coming to see me, Benny; and as he may be
here at any minute, and I don't suppose you want to be caught in your
present costume----"
Miss Bennett lifted her shoulders.
"Oh, at my age!" she said. "After all, what is the use of having lovely
dressing gowns if no one ever sees them?"
"It's Dan O'Bannon that's coming," said Lydia, "and I want to see him
alone."
"O'Bannon coming here! But, Lydia, you can't see him alone--at this
hour. Why, it's midnight!"
Miss Bennett's eyes clung to her.
"Eleven minutes to," said Lydia, with her eyes on the clock. "I wish
you'd go, Benny."
Miss Bennett hesitated.
"I don't think you ought to see him alone. I don't think it's
quite--quite nice."
"Oh, this is going to be very nice!"
"No, I mean I don't think it's safe. Suppose anything should happen."
"Should happen?" said Lydia, and for a moment she looked like the old
haughty Lydia. "What could happen?"
Miss Bennett raised both her arms and let them drop with a gesture quite
French, expressing that they both knew what men were.
"He might try to make love to you," she said.
The minute she had spoken she wished she had not, for Lydia's fine dark
brow contracted.
"What disgusting ideas you do have Benny! That man!" She stopped
herself. "I almost wish he would. If he did I think I should kill him."
To Miss Bennett this seemed just an expression; but to Lydia, with her
eyes fixed on an enormous pair of steel-and-silver scissors that lay on
the writing table, it was something more than a phrase.
Miss Bennett decided to withdraw.
"Stop in my room when you come up," she said. "I shan't close my eyes
till you do." Then gathering her shining draperies about her she left
the room.
Even after Miss Bennett had gone her suggestion remained with Lydia.
Would that man have any such idea? Would he think her sending for him
at such an hour had any flattering significance? Or would he see that
it was proof of her utter contempt for him--of her belief that she was
his superior, the master mind of the two, whatever their situation? As
for love-making--let him try it! Her blow would be all the more
effective if it could be delivered while he was on his knees.
With an absurd, hurried, tingling stroke the little clock struck
midnight. Strange, she thought, that waiting for something certain
stretched the nerves more than uncertainty. She knew O'Bannon would
come--or did she? Would he dare do that? Leave her sitting waiting for
him and never come at all? Undoubtedly he had taken Eleanor back to her
hotel. Were they laughing together over her note?
At that instant she heard the distant buzz of the front doorbell. Every
nerve in her body vibrated at the sound. Then the drawing-room door
opened and closed behind O'Bannon.
The fly had walked into the parlor, she said to herself--a great big
immaculately attired fly. Seeing him there before her all her
nervousness passed away, and she was conscious of nothing but joy--a joy
as inspiring as if it were founded on something holier than hatred; joy
that at last her moment had come.
She waited a second for his apology, and then she said quite in the
manner of a great lady who without complaining is conscious of what is
due to her, "You're late."
"I walked up," he said. "It's a lovely night."
"You have wondered why I sent for you?"
"Of course."
She sank lazily into a chair by the fire.
"Sit down," she said graciously, as if she were according the privilege
to an old servant who might hesitate otherwise.
He shook his head.
"No," he answered; "I can't stay but a minute. It's after twelve."
He leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece and took up the jade dog that
stood there, examining its polished surfaces. Lydia was well content
with this arrangement. It made her feel more at ease. She let a silence
fall, and in the silence he raised his eyes from the dog and looked at
her as if he were reluctant to do so.
He said, "I'm glad to see you here--back in your normal surroundings."
Thank heaven she did not have to be dovelike any more.
"Oh, are you?" she said derisively. "Didn't you enjoy your little visit
to me in prison?"
He shook his head slowly.
"Then may I ask why you came?"
"I don't think I shall tell you that."
"Do you think I don't know?" she asked with a sudden fierceness.
"I really haven't thought whether you knew or not."
"You came to get just what you did get--the full savor of the
humiliation of my position."
"My God," he answered coolly, "and they say women have intuition!"
His tone, as much as his words, irritated her, and she did not want to
be irritated. She raised her chin.
"It doesn't really matter why you came, at least not to me. Let me tell
you why I sent for you to-night."
But he was pursuing his own train of thought and did not seem to hear
her.
"Are you able to come back into life again? Are you"--he hesitated--"are
you happy?"
"No. But then I never was very happy. I can tell you this: I wouldn't
exchange my prison experience for anything in my whole life. You gave me
something, Mr. O'Bannon, when you sent me to prison, that no one else
was ever able to give me, not even my father, though he tried. I mean a
sense of the consequences of my own character. That's the only aspect of
punishment that is of use to people."
His eyes lit up.
"You don't mean you're grateful to me!" he said.
"No, not grateful," she answered, and a little smile began to curve the
corners of her mouth. "Not grateful to you, because, you see, I am going
to return the obligation--to do the same kind deed to you."
"To me? I don't believe I understand."
"I don't believe you do. But be patient. You will. During my trial, I
imagine--in fact I was told by your friends--that you took the position
that you were treating me as you treated any criminal whose case you
prosecuted."
"What other stand could I take?"
"Oh, officially none. But in your mind you must have known you had
another motive. Some people think it was a young man's natural thirst
for headlines, but I know--and I want you to know I know it--that it was
your personal vindictiveness toward me."
"Don't say that!" he interrupted sharply.
"I shall say it," Lydia went on, "and to you, because you are the only
person I can say it to. Oh, you knew very well how it would be! I have
to sit silent while Eleanor tells me how noble your motives were in
prosecuting me. You know--oh, you are so safe in knowing--that I will
not tell anyone that your hatred of me goes back to that evening when I
did not show myself susceptible to your fascinations when you tried to
kiss me, and I----"
"I did kiss you," said O'Bannon.
"I believe you did, but----"
"You know I did."
She sprang up at this.
"And is that something you're proud of, something it gives you
satisfaction to remember?"
"The keenest."
She stamped her foot.
"That you kissed a woman against her will? Held her in your arms because
you were physically stronger? You like to remember----"
"It was not against your will," he said.
"It was!"
"It was not!" he repeated. "Do you think I haven't been over that moment
often enough to be sure of what happened? You were not angry! You were
glad I took you in my arms! You would have been glad if I had done it
earlier!"
"Liar!" said Lydia. "Liar and cad--to say such a thing!" She was
shivering so violently that her teeth chattered like a person in an
ague. "If you knew--if you could guess the repugnance, the horror of a
woman embraced by a man she loathes and despises! Her flesh creeps!
There are no words for it! And then--then to be told by that man's mad
vanity that she liked it, that she wanted it, that she brought it on
herself----"
"Just wait a moment," he said. "I believe that you hate me now all
right, whatever you felt then."
"I do, I do hate you," she answered, "and I have the power of proving
it. I can do you an injury."
"You will always have the power of injuring me."
"Be sure I will use it."
"I dare say you will."
"I have. I haven't wasted any time at all."
"What is all this about? What have you done?" he asked without much
interest.
She drew the letter out of the front of her dress and handed it to him
with a hand that trembled so much it made the folded paper rattle. He
took it, unfolded it, read it. Watching him, she saw no change in his
face until he looked up and smiled.
"Is this it?" he asked. "A lot I care about that--not to go into the
Simpson firm! You don't understand your power. The things that would
have made me suffer--well, if you had let prison break you, if you had
given your love to that crooked politician who came down to bribe me on
your behalf----Why, when you fell at my feet in the reception room at
Auburn I suffered more than in all my life before or since, because I
love you."
"Stop!" said Lydia. "Don't dare say that to me!"
"I love you," he said. "You don't have to go about looking for things
like this," and he flicked the letter contemptuously into the fire. "You
make me suffer just by existing."
"I won't listen to you!" said Lydia, and she moved away.
"Of course you'll listen to me," he answered, standing between her and
the door. "There isn't one thing you've done since I first saw you that
has given me the slightest pleasure or peace or happiness--nothing but
unrest and pain. When you're hard and bitter I suffer, and when you're
gentle and kind----"
She gave a sort of laugh at this.
"When have you ever seen me gentle and kind?" she asked.
"Oh, I know how wonderfully you could give yourself to a man if you
loved him."
"Don't say such things!" she said, actually shuddering. "It sickens me!
Don't even think them!"
"Think! Good God, the things I think!"
"Don't even think of me at all except as your relentless enemy. If it
were true what you just said now, that you love me----"
"It is true."
"I hope it is. It gives me more power to hurt you. It must make it worse
for you to know how I hate, how I despise you, everything about you;
your using your looks and your fine figure to hypnotize simple people
like Eleanor and Miss Bennett and poor Evans; the vanity that makes you
hate me for being free of your charms; and all the petty, underhanded
things you did in the trial; all your sentimental buncombe with the poor
little Wooley girl; and your twisting the law--the law that you are
supposed to uphold--in order to get that bracelet before the jury; your
mouthing and your cheap arts with the jury; and most of all your coming
to Auburn to feast your eyes on my humiliation. Oh, if I could forgive
all the rest I could never forgive you that!"
"I'm not particularly eager that you should forgive me," he said.
To her horror she found that the breaking down of the barriers which had
kept her all these months from rehearsing her grievances to anyone was
breaking down her self-control. She knew she was going to cry.
"You can go now," she said. She made a sweeping gesture toward the door.
Already the muscles in her throat were beginning to contract. He stood
looking into the fire as if he had not heard her. She stamped her foot.
"Don't you understand me?" she said. "I want you to go."
"I'm going, but there's something I want to say to you." He was
evidently trying to think something out in words.
"I shall never have anything more to say to you," she replied.
She sank down on the sofa and leaned her head back among the cushions.
She closed her eyes to keep back her tears, and sat rigid with the
struggle. If she did not speak again--and she wouldn't--she might get
rid of him before the storm broke. He took a cigarette and lit it. Even
New York was silent for a minute, and the little clock on the table
succeeded in making audible its faint, quick ticking. Lydia became aware
that tears were slowly forcing their way under her lids, that she was
swallowing audibly. She put her hands against her mouth in the effort
to keep back a sob. And O'Bannon began to speak, without looking at her.
"I don't know whether I can make you understand," he said. "I don't know
that it matters whether you understand or not, but in your whole case I
did exactly what a district attorney ought to do, only it is true that
behind my doing it----"
He was stopped by a sob.
"Yes, yes!" she said fiercely, her whole face distorted with emotion,
"it's true I'm crying, but if you come near me I'll kill you."
"I won't," he answered. "Cry in peace."
She took him at his word. She cried, not peacefully but wildly. She
flung herself face downward on the sofa and sobbed, with her head buried
in the cushions, while her whole body shook. She had not cried like this
since she was a little child. It was a wild luxurious abandonment of all
self-control. Once she heard O'Bannon move.
[Illustration: SHE FLUNG HERSELF FACE DOWNWARD ON THE SOFA AND SOBBED.]
"Don't touch me!" she repeated without raising her head.
"I'm not going to," he answered.
He began to walk up and down the room--up and down the room she could
hear him going. Once he went to the mantelpiece, and leaning his elbows
on the shelf he put his hands over his ears. And then without warning he
came and sat down beside her on the sofa and gathered her into his arms
like a child.
"No, no!" she said with what little was left of her voice.
"Oh, what difference does it make?" he answered.
She made no reply. She seemed hardly aware that he had drawn her head
and shoulders across his upright body so that her face was hidden in the
crook of his arm. He put his hand on her heaving shoulder, looking down
at the disordered knot of her black hair. A few minutes before he would
have said that he could not have touched her hand without setting fire
to his strong desire for her. And here she was, softly in his arms, and
his only emotion was a tenderness so comprehensive that all desires
beyond that moment were swallowed up in it.
He almost smiled to remember the futility of the explanation he had been
attempting. This was the real explanation between them. How little
difference words made, he thought, and yet how we all cling to them! He
took his free hand from her shoulder, and like a careful nurse he slid
back a hair-pin, just poised to fall from the crisp mass of her hair.
Gradually her sobs stopped, she gave a long deep breath, and presently
he saw she had fallen asleep.
There never was an hour in O'Bannon's life that he set beside that hour.
He sat like a man in a trance, and yet acutely aware of everything about
him; of the logs in the fire that, burning through, fell apart like a
blazing drawbridge across the andirons; of an occasional footstep in the
street; and finally of the inevitable approach of the rattling milk
wagon, of its stopping at the door, of the wire trays, of the raising of
the Thorne basement window and the slow thump of the delivery of the
allotted number of bottles.
After a long time a little frightened face stared at him round the door.
Turning his head slowly, he saw Miss Bennett, her gray hair brushed
straight back from her face and her eyes large and staring.
"Is she dead?" she whispered.
O'Bannon shook his head, and hardly making a sound, his lips formed the
words, "Go away."
Miss Bennett really couldn't do that.
"It's almost five o'clock," she said reproachfully.
He nodded.
"Go away," he said.
In her bright satin dressing gown she sat down, but he could see that
she was nervous and uncertain. He summoned all the powers of will that
he possessed; he fixed his eyes on her, compelling her to look at him;
and when he felt he had gathered her in he raised his right hand and
gently but decisively pointed to the door. She got up and went out.
The fire had burned itself completely out now, and the cold of the hours
before dawn began to penetrate the room. O'Bannon began to apprehend the
fact that this night must some time end--that Lydia must presently wake
up. He dreaded the moment there would be more anger, more repudiation of
the obvious bond between them, more torture and separation. He
shivered, and leaning forward he softly drew her cloak from a
neighboring chair and laid it over her, tucking it in about her
shoulders. He was afraid the movement might have waked her, but she
seemed to sleep on.
Again the minutes began to slip enchantedly away, and then far away in
the house, in some remote upper story, he heard a footstep. Housemaids.
Inwardly be called down the curse of heaven upon them. He glanced down
at Lydia, and suddenly knew--how he knew it he could not say--that she
had heard it too; that she had been awake a long time, since he put the
cloak over her--perhaps since Miss Bennett had left the room.
Awake and content! His heart began to beat loudly, violently.
"Lydia," he said.
She did not move or answer, only he felt that her head pressed more
closely into the hollow of his arm.
THE END
THE NOVELS OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART
DANGEROUS DAYS.
A brilliant story of married life. A romance of fine purpose and
stirring appeal.
THE AMAZING INTERLUDE.
Illustrations by The Kinneys.
The story of a great love which cannot be pictured--an
interlude--amazing, romantic.
LOVE STORIES.
This book is exactly what its title indicates, a collection of love
affairs--sparkling with humor, tenderness and sweetness.
"K." Illustrated.
K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, goes to live in a little town where
beautiful Sidney Page lives. She is in training to become a nurse. The
joys and troubles of their young love are told with keen and sympathetic
appreciation.
THE MAN IN LOWER TEN.
Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy.
An absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the
"Man in Lower Ten."
WHEN A MAN MARRIES.
Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Mayo Bunker.
A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that his
aunt is soon to visit him. The aunt, who contributes to the family
income, knows nothing of the domestic upheaval. How the young man met
the situation is entertainingly told.
THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE.
Illustrated by Lester Ralph.
The occupants of "Sunnyside" find the dead body of Arnold Armstrong on
the circular staircase. Following the murder a bank failure is
announced. Around these two events is woven a plot of absorbing
interest.
THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS.
(Photoplay Edition.)
Harmony Wells, studying in Vienna to be a great violinist, suddenly
realizes that her money is almost gone. She meets a young ambitious
doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together with
world-worn Dr. Anna and Jimmie, the waif, they share their love and
slender means.
JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD'S STORIES OF ADVENTURE
THE RIVER'S END
A story of the Royal Mounted Police.
THE GOLDEN SNARE
Thrilling adventures in the Far Northland.
NOMADS OF THE NORTH
The story of a bear-cub and a dog.
KAZAN
The tale of a "quarter-strain wolf and three-quarters husky" torn
between the call of the human and his wild mate.
BAREE, SON OF KAZAN
The story of the son of the blind Grey Wolf and the gallant part he
played in the lives of a man and a woman.
THE COURAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUM
The story of the King of Beaver Island, a Mormon colony, and his battle
with Captain Plum.
THE DANGER TRAIL
A tale of love, Indian vengeance, and a mystery of the North.
THE HUNTED WOMAN
A tale of a great fight in the "valley of gold" for a woman.
THE FLOWER OF THE NORTH
The story of Fort o' God, where the wild flavor of the wilderness is
blended with the courtly atmosphere of France.
THE GRIZZLY KING
The story of Thor, the big grizzly.
ISOBEL
A love story of the Far North.
THE WOLF HUNTERS
A thrilling tale of adventure in the Canadian wilderness.
THE GOLD HUNTERS
The story of adventure in the Hudson Bay wilds.
THE COURAGE OF MARGE O'DOONE
Filled with exciting incidents in the land of strong men and women.
BACK TO GOD'S COUNTRY
A thrilling story of the Far North. The great Photoplay was made from
this book.
EDGAR RICE BURROUGH'S NOVELS
TARZAN THE UNTAMED
Tells of Tarzan's return to the life of the ape-man in his search for
vengeance on those who took from him his wife and home.
JUNGLE TALES OF TARZAN
Records the many wonderful exploits by which Tarzan proves his right to
ape kingship.
A PRINCESS OF MARS
Forty-three million miles from the earth--a succession of the weirdest
and most astounding adventures in fiction. John Carter, American, finds
himself on the planet Mars, battling for a beautiful woman, with the
Green Men of Mars, terrible creatures fifteen feet high, mounted on
horses like dragons.
THE GODS OF MARS
Continuing John Carter's adventures on the Planet Mars, in which he does
battle against the ferocious "plant men," creatures whose mighty tails
swished their victims to instant death, and defies Issus, the terrible
Goddess of Death, whom all Mars worships and reveres.
THE WARLORD OF MARS
Old acquaintances, made in the two other stories, reappear, Tars Tarkas,
Tardos Mors and others. There is a happy ending to the story in the
union of the Warlord, the title conferred upon John Carter, with Dejah
Thoris.
THUVIA, MAID OF MARS
The fourth volume of the series. The story centers around the adventures
of Carthoris, the son of John Carter and Thuvia, daughter of a Martian
Emperor.
FLORENCE L. BARCLAY'S NOVELS
THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER
A novel of the 12th Century. The heroine, believing she had lost her
lover, enters a convent. He returns, and interesting developments
follow.
THE UPAS TREE
A love story of rare charm. It deals with a successful author and his
wife.
THROUGH THE POSTERN GATE
The story of a seven day courtship, in which the discrepancy in ages
vanished into insignificance before the convincing demonstration of
abiding love.
THE ROSARY
The story of a young artist who is reputed to love beauty above all else
in the world, but who, when blinded through an accident, gains life's
greatest happiness. A rare story of the great passion of two real people
superbly capable of love, its sacrifices and its exceeding reward.
THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE
The lovely young Lady Ingleby, recently widowed by the death of a
husband who never understood her, meets a fine, clean young chap who is
ignorant of her title and they fall deeply in love with each other. When
he learns her real identity a situation of singular power is developed.
THE BROKEN HALO
The story of a young man whose religious belief was shattered in
childhood and restored to him by the little white lady, many years older
than himself, to whom he is passionately devoted.
THE FOLLOWING OF THE STAR
The story of a young missionary, who, about to start for Africa, marries
wealthy Diana Rivers, in order to help her fulfill the conditions of her
uncle's will, and how they finally come to love each other and are
reunited after experiences that soften and purify.