In all her honest, hard-worked little life Miss Jessup had never done
more honest, hard work than she was called upon to do on the day of the
inauguration. She had written into the small hours the night before; she
had described bunting and arches, evergreens and grand stands, the
visiting regiments, club uniforms, bands, banners, torch-lights and
speeches, and on the eventful day she was up with the dawn, arranging in
the most practicable manner her plans for the day. With letters
containing a full and dramatic description of the ceremonies to be
written to four western papers, and with extra work upon the Washington
weekly and daily, there was no time to be lost. Miss Jessup lost none.
Each hour of the day was portioned off--each minute, almost. Now she was
to take a glance at the procession from the steps of the Treasury; now
she was to spend a few moments in a balcony overlooking another point;
she was to see the oath administered, hear the President's address and
form an estimate of his appreciation of the solemnity of the moment; she
was to take his temperature during the afternoon, and be ready to greet
him at the ball, and describe dresses, uniforms, decorations, flags, and
evergreens again. Even as she took her hasty breakfast she was jotting
down appropriate items, and had already begun an article, opening with
the sentence, "Rarely has Washington witnessed a more brilliant
spectacle," etc.
It could scarcely be said that she missed anything when she went her
rounds later. No familiar face escaped her; she recognized people at
windows, in carriages, on platforms. Among others she caught a glimpse
of Mrs. Amory, who drove by on her way to the Capitol with her father
and Jack and Janey.
"She looks a little tired about the eyes," thought Miss Jessup. "She has
looked a little that way all the season, though she keeps going steadily
enough. They work as hard as the rest of us, in their way, these society
women. She will be at the ball to-night, I dare say."
Bertha herself had wondered if she would find herself there. Even as she
drove past Miss Jessup, she was thinking that it seemed almost
impossible; but she had thought things impossible often during the
winter which had gone by, and had found them come to pass and leave her
almost as before. Gradually, however, people had begun to miss something
in her. There was no denying, they said, that she had lost some of her
vivacity and spirit; some tone had gone from her voice; something of
color from her manner. Perhaps she would get over it. Amory had not
behaved well in the Westoria land affair, and she naturally felt his
absence and the shadow under which he rested.
"Very gradually," she said to the professor once, "I think I am retiring
from the world. I never was really very clever or pretty. I don't hide
it so well as I used to, and people are finding me out. Often I am a
little dull, and it is not likely they will forgive me that."
But she was not dull at home, or the professor never thought so. She was
not dull now, as she pointed out objects of interest to Jack and Janey.
"I wish Uncle Philip were here!" cried Jack. "He would have his sword on
and be in uniform, and he would look taller than all the rest,--taller
than the President."
The day was very brilliant to the children; they were as indefatigable
as Miss Jessup, and missed as little as if they had been in search of
items. The blare of brazen instruments, the tramp of soldiers, the
rattle of arms, the rushing crowds, the noise and color and excitement,
filled them with rapture. When they finally reached home they were worn
out with their delights. Bertha was not less fatigued; but, after the
nursery was quiet and the children were asleep, she came down to dine
with the professor.
"And we will go to the ball for an hour," she said. "We cannot submit to
having it described to us for the next two weeks by people who were
there."
The truth was that she could not sit at home and listen to the carriages
rolling by, and watch the dragging hours with such memories as must fill
them.
So at half-past ten she stood in her room, putting the last touches to
her toilet, and shortly afterward she was driving with the professor
toward the scene of the night's gayeties. She had seen the same scene on
each like occasion since her eighteenth year. There was nothing new
about it to-night; there was some change in dances and music, but the
same types of people crowded against each other, looking on at the
dancing, pointing out the President, asking the old questions, and
making the old comments; young people whirled together in the centre of
the ballroom, and older ones watched them, with some slight wonder at
the interest they evinced in the exercise. Bertha danced only a few
quadrilles. As she went through them she felt again what she had felt on
each such occasion since the night of the ball of the last year,--the
music seemed too loud, the people too vivacious, the gayety about her
too tumultuous; though, judged by ordinary standards, there could have
been no complaint against it.
But, notwithstanding this feeling, she lingered longer than she had
intended, trying to hide from herself her dread of returning home. No
one but herself knew--even the professor did not suspect--how empty the
house seemed to her, and how its loneliness grew and grew until
sometimes it overpowered her and became a sort of deadly presence.
Richard's empty rooms were a terror to her; she never passed their
closed doors without a shock.
At half-past twelve, however, she decided to go home. She had just ended
a dance with a young _attaché_ of one of the legations; he was a
brilliantly hued and graceful young butterfly, and danced and talked
well. There had been a time when she had liked to hear his sharp,
slightly satirical nonsense, and had enjoyed a dance with him. She had
listened to-night, and had used her pretty smile at opportune moments;
but she was glad to sit down again.
"Now," she said to him, "will you be so good as to find my father for
me, and tell him I will go home?"
"I will, if I must," he answered. "But otherwise"--
"You will if you are amiable," she said. "I blush to own that I am
tired. I have assisted in the inaugural ceremonies without flinching
from their first step until their last, and I begin to feel that His
Excellency is safe and I may retire."
He found her a quiet corner and went to do her bidding. She was partly
shielded by some tall plants, and was glad of the retreat they afforded
her. She sat and let her eyes rest upon the moving crowd promenading the
room between the dances; the music had ceased, and she could catch
snatches of conversation as people passed her. Among the rest were a
pretty, sparkling-eyed girl and a young army officer who attracted her.
She watched them on their way round the circle twice, and they were just
nearing her for the second time when her attention was drawn from them
by the sound of voices near her.
"Indian outbreak," she heard. "Tredennis! News just came in."
She rose from her seat. The speakers were on the other side of the
plants. One of them was little Miss Jessup, the other a stranger, and
Miss Jessup was pale with agitation and professional interest, and her
note-book trembled in her little, bird-like hand.
"Colonel Tredennis!" she said. "Oh! I knew him. I liked him--every one
did--every one! What are the particulars? Are they really authenticated?
Oh, what a terrible thing!"
"We know very few particulars," was the answer; "but those we know are
only too well authenticated. We shall hear more later. The Indians
attacked a small settlement, and a party went from the fort to the
rescue. Colonel Tredennis commanded it. The Indians were apparently
beaten off, but returned. A little child had been left in the house,
through some misunderstanding, and Tredennis heard it crying as the
Indians made their second attack, and went after it. He was shot as he
brought it out in his arms."
Little Miss Jessup burst into tears and dropped her note-book.
"Oh!" she cried. "He was a good, brave man! He was a good man!"
The band struck up a waltz. The promenading stopped; a score or two of
couples took their place upon the floor, and began to whirl swiftly past
the spot where Bertha stood; the music seemed to grow faster and faster,
and louder, and still more loud.
Bertha stood still.
She had not moved when the professor came to her. He himself wore a sad,
grief-stricken face; he had heard the news too; it had not taken it long
to travel around the room.
"Take me home," she said to him. "Philip is dead! Philip has been
killed!"
He took her away as quickly as he could through the whirling crowd of
dancers, past the people who crowded, and laughed, and listened to the
music of the band.
"Keep close to me!" she said. "Do not let them see my face!"
When they were shut up in the carriage together she sat shuddering for a
moment, he shuddering, also, at the sight of the face he had hidden;
then she trembled into his arms, clung to his shoulder, cowered down and
hid herself upon his knee, slipped down kneeling upon the floor of the
carriage, and clung to him with both her arms.
"I never told you that I was a wicked woman," she said. "I will tell you
now; always--always I have tried to hide that it was Philip--Philip!"--
"Poor child!" he said. "Poor, unhappy--most unhappy child!" All the
strength of her body seemed to have gone into the wild clasp of her
slender arms.
"I have suffered," she said. "I have been broken; I have been crushed. I
knew that I should never see him again, but he was alive. Do you think
that I shall some day have been punished enough?"
He clasped her close to his breast, and laid his gray head upon her
brown one, shedding bitter tears.
"We do not know that this is punishment," he said.
"No," she answered. "We do not know. Take me home to my little children.
Let me stay with them. I will try to be a good mother--I will try"--
She lay in his arms until the carriage stopped. Then they got out and
went into the house. When they closed the door behind them, and stood in
the hall together, the deadly silence smote them both. They did not
speak to each other. The professor supported her with his arm as they
went slowly up the stairs. He had extinguished the light below before
they came up. All the house seemed dark but for a glow of fire-light
coming through an open door on the first landing. It was the door Philip
Tredennis had seen open the first night when he had looked in and had
seen Bertha sitting in her nursery-chair with her child on her breast.
There they both stopped. Before the professor's eyes there rose, with
strange and terrible clearness, the vision of a girl's bright face
looking backward at him from the night, the light streaming upon it as
it smiled above a cluster of white roses. And it was this that remained
before him when, a moment afterward, Bertha went into the room and
closed the door.
THE END.
THE NOVELS AND STORIES OF
Frances Hodgson Burnett
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, PUBLISHERS
"_We have no hesitation in saying that there is no living writer
(man or woman) who has Mrs. Burnett's dramatic power in telling a
story_."--N. Y. HERALD.
In Connection with
The De Willoughby Claim
_12mo. $1.35 net._
Mrs. Burnett's new novel is a literary event of the highest importance.
From first to last one reads on with breathless interest of the winning
of the great claim which was to reinstate good-natured "Big Tom" De
Willoughby in his birthright. Interwoven with it is the story of a woman
deceived by the man of whom the world would have least expected it, his
identity being effectually concealed till the terrible revelation of the
dramatic final chapters. The fate of the heartless fanatic who stood
nearest the loving couple, brutal in his loyalty to his idea of the
right, has a dramatic significance which is intensified in the light of
his past conduct.
As if to compensate, however, for the mother's grief, her child survives
her; and in this beautiful child-life Mrs. Burnett has added another
charming portrait to her gallery of juvenile characters. How Tom De
Willoughby's life was saved from blackness and desolation and made to
overflow with happiness--this the reader will learn for himself.
The tragedy of the story, intensified by the contrast of the fanatical
New England temper with Southern chivalry and kindness, is not its only
side. The love between a beautiful, romantic child and a strong man who
is her protector fills the book with a sweetness that matches its
dramatic fire.
NOVELS BY MRS. BURNETT
The Dawn of a Tomorrow
Illustrated in Color by F. C. YOHN. 12mo, $1.00 _net_.
"An uncommonly vivid story."--_Boston Advertiser._
"A touching little tale that carries a sublime truth."--_Detroit
Free Press._
His Grace of Osmonde
Being the Portions of that Nobleman's Life omitted in the Relation of
his Lady's Story, presented to the World of Fashion under the Title of
"A Lady of Quality." 12mo, $1.35 _net_.
"We have no doubt that it will be read with the same eager interest
and grateful approval that rewarded 'A Lady of Quality.'"--_New
York Sun._
A Lady of Quality
Being a most curious, hitherto unknown history, related to Mr. Isaac
Bickerstaff, but not presented to the World of Fashion through the pages
of _The Tattler_, and now for the first time written down by FRANCES
HODGSON BURNETT. 12mo, $1.35 _net_.
"The plot is excellent, and an unflagging interest is maintained
from the first page to the very last."--_The Critic._
The One I Knew the Best of All
A Memory of the Mind of a Child. Richly and fully illustrated by R. B.
BIRCH. 12mo, handsomely bound, $1.25 _net_.
MRS. KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN.--"This 'Memory of the Mind of a Child'
has the engaging candor and transparency of all sincere
autobiography, yet it is revealed with such exquisite delicacy and
absence of self-consciousness that we forget that the child heroine
is Mrs. Burnett in youth."
The Pretty Sister of José
With 12 illustrations by C. S. REINHART. 12mo, $1.00 _net_.
"This proud and self-willed little Spanish beauty, with her fierce
scorn of all love and lovers, and her cruel coquetry, is a charming
heroine, not unknown to us, indeed, by other names in other novels,
but abundantly welcome thus freshly, brightly, and vividly
individualized for us again by Mrs. Burnett. The story is swiftly
and dramatically told with all the freedom and sureness of a
skilful outline drawing. Perfect art was necessary to its effective
telling."--_Boston Advertiser._
NOVELS BY MRS. BURNETT
That Lass o' Lowrie's
12mo, $1.25 _net_.
"We know of no more powerful work from a woman's hand in the
English language, not even excepting the best of George
Eliot's."--_Boston Transcript._
Haworth's
Illustrated. 12mo, $1.25 _net_.
"A product of genius of a very high order."--_New York
Evening Post._
"One of the few great American novels."--_Hartford Courant._
Through One Administration
12mo, $1.35 _net_.
"As a study of Washington life, dealing largely with what might be
called social politics, it is certainly a success. As a society
novel it is indeed quite perfect."--_The Critic._
Louisiana
12mo, $1.25 _net_.
"A delightful little story, original and piquant in design, and
carried out with great artistic skill."--_Boston Saturday Evening
Gazette._
A Fair Barbarian
Cloth, $1.25 _net_.
"If a more amusing or clever novelette than 'A Fair Barbarian' has
ever been given to the American public, we fail to recall
it."--_Pittsburgh Telegraph._
Surly Tim, and Other Stories
12mo, $1.25 _net_.
"Uncommonly vigorous and truthful stories of human
nature."--_Chicago Tribune._
Vagabondia: A Love Story
12mo, cloth, $1.25 _net_.
"One of the sweetest love stories ever written."--_Brooklyn Eagle._
"A charming love story in Mrs. Burnett's brightest and most winning
style."--_New York Herald._
Earlier Stories
_First Series_--Comprising Theo, Miss Crespigny, and Lindsay's Luck.
_Second Series_--Comprising Pretty Polly Pemberton, and Kathleen.
Each, 12mo, $1.25 _net_.
"Each of these narratives has a distinct spirit. They are told not
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JUVENILES BY MRS. BURNETT
A Little Princess
Being the Whole Story of Sara Crewe, now told for the First Time.
Illustrated in Color. 8vo, $2.00 _net_.
"So here is the whole story of Sara Crewe better than it was at
first, because there is more of it, with a dozen beautiful colored
pictures."--_The Outlook._
Two Little Pilgrims' Progress
A Story of the City Beautiful. With many illustrations by R. B. BIRCH,
12mo, $1.20 _net_.
"The day we first read it will stand ever after among the
red-letter days of life. It is a story to be marked with a white
stone, a strong, sweet, true book, touching the high-water mark of
excellence."--MRS. MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
Little Lord Fauntleroy
Beautifully illustrated by R. B. BIRCH. 12mo, $1.20 _net_.
"In 'Little Lord Fauntleroy' we gain another charming child to add
to our gallery of juvenile heroes and heroines; one who teaches a
great lesson with such truth and sweetness that we part from him
with real regret."--LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
Sara Crewe and Little Saint Elizabeth
and Other Stories. Richly and fully illustrated by R. B. BIRCH. 12mo,
$1.20 _net_.
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simple, so natural, so genuine, and so indomitable, Mrs. Burnett
has added another child to English fiction."--R. H. STODDARD.
"'Little Saint Elizabeth' is one of the most winning and pathetic
of Mrs. Burnett's child heroines. The fairy tales which follow her
history, retold from a lost fairy book, are quite charming."--_The
Athenæum._
Giovanni and the Other
Children who have made Stories. With 9 full-page illustrations by R. B.
BIRCH. 12mo, $1.20 _net_.
"Stories beautiful in tone, and style, and color."--KATE
DOUGLAS WIGGIN.
Piccino
And Other Child Stories. Fully illustrated by R. B. BIRCH. 12mo, $1.20
_net_.
"The history of Piccino's 'two days' is as delicate as one of the
anemones that spring in the rock walls facing Piccino's
Mediterranean.... The other stories in the book have the charm of
their predecessor in material and manner."--MRS. BURTON HARRISON.
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
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